


Many Bothan Stings

by B_Radley



Series: Becoming Fulcrum [24]
Category: Star Wars: Rebellion Era - All Media Types
Genre: Espionage, Focus on the big picture, Fulcrum is not amused, Gen, Handmaidens, Healing, Lessons, Revenge, Survival, Very early Fulcrum
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-03
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-08-16 23:18:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 46,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16504721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/B_Radley/pseuds/B_Radley
Summary: Sting:2.informalA carefully planned operation, usually involving deceptionOrFulcrum still doesn’t like a particular Bothan spy. Her bosses and allies try to convince her that a night in the drunk tank, because of that particular Bothan, builds character.Along the way, she might learn some things.Follow-up toThe Bothan Jailbreak Blues





	1. Prologue: What we have here....

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Bothan Jailbreak Blues](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10269128) by [B_Radley](https://archiveofourown.org/users/B_Radley/pseuds/B_Radley). 



The ramp of the shuttle opens on a gray world. The naval officer takes a deep breath; smells the burnt plastic and wood in the air. A look of disgust crosses her dark features as she walks down the ramp. Her eyes fall on a dozen or so humans clad only in their undergarments.

She spies the cog of her Empire on one’s arm, a tattoo from a long-ago liberty call. She exhales as the twenty stormtroopers loaned to her move out and start corralling the wayward fleet troopers.

Rae Sloane stands looking at the smoking ruins of a small detention center. The Sergeant of one of her squads walks up to her. She makes him hold his salute for about a half-minute, the privilege of a newly-promoted junior Lieutenant.

“We can’t find any local willing to tell us what happened? All they could see was one of the fleet troopers, subsequently identified as FQ-5997, standing in his underwear and using a heavy blaster rifle and a flamethrower on the building. All of the other troopers from the shift did nothing to stop him.”

“What about the recording systems? The other troopers of the garrison?” Rae asks.

“All wiped. Nothing. As for the troopers, they weren’t billeted here. They would come by shuttle from the base, half a world away. By some atmospheric anomaly, the _Resurgent_ picked up the auto-distress call, rather than the base.”

“Where’s the shuttle?”

The reply, fed through the tinny inflection of the trooper’s modulator, contains a tiny bit of impatience. Rae hardens her eyes at him. “We don’t know. It’s gone. No tracking. We found the locator beacon where it had been sitting. The pilot was in her underwear as well.”

Another trooper walks up and salutes. “Lieutenant, our comm/tech did manage to access a tiny bit of a handwritten remnant. The kind that someone might make as a note before entering it into the computer system. It only makes reference to an informant on Bothawui Proper.”

Rae closes her eyes. A world known for its spies and information brokers. Several of whom whose business model includes betraying a competitor to the Empire. A distant memory of one contact in her short career is tweaked. In the year and a half or so that the Empire had replaced the Republic, Imperial naval officers, as well as any officers of the security apparatuses, were encouraged to use informants whenever they could, to bring Order to the disordered.

“Signal the Captain, please. Send the information that we have and request permission to follow-up. Ask him to order the garrison commander to send more troops here, or whatever they want to do with this facility.”

The Sergeant salutes and starts to turn. He stops. “What about these troopers? Shall we execute them?”

Rae looks at the confused, nearly-naked mass, now huddled against the remnant of one wall. Her troopers are already gathered around in a loose semi-circle facing them, their blasters already at the ‘ready’ position.

She shakes her head. “No. That’ll be for their commander to decide. I will recommend that she has medicals completed, to try and figure out what caused this. Could be a new weapon.”

As the trooper turns away, she sees the blaster squad lowering their weapons. She doesn’t know if she had done the shift any favors; those ‘medicals’ could come with dissection and experimentation at the hands of the Imperial Security Bureau.

A text flashes on her comm. _Proceed_.

She contemplates the jungle as the engine of her shuttle starts its ignition cycle.

+=+=+=+=+=

The information broker feels the smile crease his heavily furred jaws as he sees the numbers in his credit account rise. Another satisfied client, as well as another vanquished opponent.

Fey’lan Krtsador, of a long line of Bothan spies and information brokers, reaches out and takes one of the pieces of dried jerky from the proffered tray. His eyes grow hooded as he runs the back of his hand over the bare shoulders of the young human female. His grin broadens as she flinches, but lays the tray down. She pulls closer to him.

A Zeltron male in his mid-thirties steps up and walks up unannounced to his dais. One of the guards, a distant kinsman of Krtsador’s, starts towards him. For a moment, Krtsador debates allowing the guard to test the Zeltron. He is about to wave him away when another figure, this one in Mandalorian armor, touches the Bothan guard on his arm. He shoves the Mando, but retreats at the glare of the Zeltron.

“Begging your pardon, Mr. Krtsador, but I have information that you might be interested in,” he says, his gray eyes locking with Krtsador’s; refusing to back down at his anger for the interruption.

Krtsador relaxes and waves his companion away. The Zeltron, who had given his name as Gallatin, had given him many more successful results than others in his position, is allowed a certain effrontery. He picks up another piece of jerky and pops it in his mouth.

The spicy taste of the _akar_ jerky, a gift from another who had tested his patience, brings him back to another slight taste of revenge that had made his week. A few greased palms and his problem had wound up in an Imperial drunk-tank on a backwater world. Another slip of data about the problem’s desire for the Empire’s security procedures for its ships and personnel, and the problem would be permanently ended by an execution droid.

 _Slow termination_ , they call it.

“What is it, Galatin?” he asks calmly.

“I’ve gotten some information on a previous project, sir,” Gallatin replies. “It’s not gone as planned.”

Krtsador narrows his eyes at the Zeltron. “What is it?” he repeats with a growl, his hackles raising.

“Information from an Imperial source. The detention facility, Asrah-1. It’s been destroyed. Its sole prisoner has escaped.”

The taste of the jerky, a gift from that former prisoner, when their relationship still had promise, sours in his jaw. He spits it out. “How did this happen? I was assured that she wouldn’t be a problem.”

“The Imperials are not sure. They don’t even have any records of any prisoner; description, anything.”

 _I certainly do_ , he thinks. _A teenaged Togruta female, quick to pull a blaster or a knife. Plus a lack of respect for a profitable and pleasurable offer._

“Reach out to our contacts. I want her found. Her skin will either be decorating my wall, or she’ll be kneeling before me.”

_She should’ve been the one serving me the jerky and on my arm. Others would give their canines to be given an offer as I gave her._

As Gallatin starts to move away, he raises his hand. “Make sure that you reach out to our contacts on Alderaan. I think that the troublesome Togruta mentioned some financial backers there. I might be able to kill two _sharlats_ with one _zehv_. Remove my problem, as well as gain some lucrative alliances there and on Naboo, with this other contact.”

Krtsador smiles to himself. He looks in the mirror on the far wall. He sees a face with handsome teeth; well groomed fur. He knows that humans would refer to his smile as wolfish. The grin of a predator.

He accepts that, with no objection.

+=+=+=+=+=

Bail Organa watches the sun play over the mountains from his study in the Palace. He opens the window a tiny bit, allowing the chilled air to play over his face. He closes his eyes for a brief moment as he breathes the crispness in.

The sound of the door opening, brings his thoughts to Alderaan, instead of the galaxy as a whole. He turns and looks at the young woman who stands there. A young woman known for her resemblance to—even for the ability to mimic and portray a young Queen. A young Queen who had become one of his closest allies; indeed, one of his closest friends in the pre-Empire Senate. A close friend and confidant of his wife, as she tried to navigate ruling a world, missing her husband, and recovering from miscarriages. Miscarriages that had threatened their marriage, as well as her precarious health.

Sabe’—known even to him by only one name, dips her head in a bow. Even now, in her early thirties, her resemblance to Padme’ Amidala is still close enough that with the make-up and elaborate hair and dress, she could still serve as a double.

“Hello, Sabe’. I’m assuming that you’ve come to take Leia back to her room?” He smiles down at the one-and-a-half year old lying on a makeshift pallet, her brown waves undone from the braids that the fussy caretaker droid had bound them in. Leia’s bodyguard looks down and smiles at the sleeping girl, a blue stuffed tooka held tightly under her arm.

“No, Viceroy,” she replies, bringing her eyes back to his. They move away from the window; away from Leia, so as not to disturb her. “I have news about a certain new hire.”

His eyes narrow at the double meaning. Sabe’ is one of the few that know about his ‘side interests.’ He takes a deep breath, then nods. “What is it?”

“I’ve received a message from one of my sources,” she says. Bail remains silent. As a former Naboo handmaiden, then as an intelligence operative for that peaceful world, Sabe‘ had built an extensive network of contacts, informants, and n’er do wells that Bail had thought it prudent to never ask about when she became his world’s sole Handmaiden. He nods.

“There has been interest in that new hire. Apparently Fulcrum has pissed off a certain businessman in the information world. That businessman managed to get her sent to an Imperial detention facility, while unconscious.”

Bail’s heart stops. Sabe’ holds up her hand. “No, we’ve not been compromised. Neither has she. Apparently she destroyed the facility; or at least talked the guards into doing it for her, and then conveniently forget everything.”

His lips quirk upward slightly. “So what’s the new interest?”

“Apparently the businessman has already contacted another businessman. One on the Mother,” she replies, using the colloquial name for the beautiful world they now stand on.

Bail’s lips turn downward on one side in the closest thing to a sneer that would cross his features. “Panteer.”

“Yes,” she says. “My source says that there might also be a Naboo connection to them both.”

“So what has Fulcrum gotten herself into?” he asks.

Her own eyes harden. “I think she might try to go after the businessman that sent her to that drunk tank on Asrah Prime.” Bail’s eyebrows raise at that.

“Do you have any sources on Naboo that can maybe look at that angle? I really need to make sure that Fulcrum’s identity is safe.” He grits his teeth. “Even from herself.”

She nods. They both turn as Breha walks in. Sabe’ bows and turns away, leaving them alone.

Her dark eyes look into his knowingly. “Is she safe?” she asks, pulling him into her arms. The warm glow of the pulmonodes on her chest cut into the dim light. He nods.

“In spite of herself.”

She reaches up and kisses him. “Are you afraid she’s too much like her Master?”

He remains silent.

“I don’t think she is. From what I saw when she defended Padme’, plus what those two girls from Raada told us, she’s firmly in the light,” Breha adds.

“That’s not what I’m worried about,” he says. “I’m afraid she might be too impulsive. She is eighteen.”

Breha places her fingers on his lips. “I don’t think that’s it, my love,” she says. “She was all of fourteen when she started in the war. Sabe’ was fifteen when her world was invaded. Padme’ was fourteen.” She looks down. “That young woman healing in our concealed wing is barely seventeen; she just watched her Queen and her fellow Handmaidens slaughtered.

“As well as the father of her lost child.” She kisses him again. “That’s what I’m here for. Neyutnee is here to see her.”

He nods. “I’ll be along,” he says. She nods and turns away to greet another former Queen of Naboo.

He looks down at his daughter. She stirs slightly; he holds his breath until she falls back to her dreams. His mind is on other young women of his acquaintance—young women whose safety is foremost in his mind. Including one who is trying to find her way in a new reality; one in which her kind are killed on sight.

As well as one who is recovering. Recovering from injuries to her body and her heart.

Injuries inflicted by the same new reality that Fulcrum is fighting against.


	2. When you were young and your heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Audiences in bars and other nasty places.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to SL Walker for the beta and encouragement!

Gregar Typho, once a Naboo Senator’s guard Captain, as well as a guard in her time as Queen, wipes the foam from his beard with his sleeve. As a Captain, he would’ve never been caught dead in public with ale and whisky on his sleeve, much less his face.

He probably would’ve never been drinking a Concussion Charge boilermaker, either. Not since his days as a private guard. In the days before his uncle had lifted him out of the gutter and made something out of him. That same uncle, now Moff Quarsh Panaka of the Chommel sector. Imperial overlord; all vestiges of sovereignty wiped out in a burst of blasterfire and lightsaber cuts, at the order of his great friend, from the early days, Palpatine. All in the name of order. 

_I didn’t know, Gregar. I didn’t know that Queen Apailana’s defiance of a simple Imperial rescript would bring her slaughter. She and her Handmaidens, at the hands of Vader and his Fist. It was taken out of my hands when the 501st landed._

He grits his teeth as he thinks of how the universe has turned on its ass. He rubs the eye patch over his left eye with the heel of his hand, then closes his one remaining eye at the holos he had seen. Queen Apailana lying on the marble floor, a blaster wound in her chest. A few of her Handmaidens lying next to her.

Several of them couldn’t be captured in holos, as the leader of the Imperial attack—the reprisal—had sliced several of them as they knelt, their hands bound. His successor as Guard Captain, Finder Skon, had died as well, even though his body had never been found.

There were rumors that one of the young women had survived; whispers, really. Whispers he had only heard in certain circles. Certain circles on Alderaan. Certain circles who were courting him for a specific job. A job not unlike what he had once held for his world. 

Something he cannot bring himself to do, with his failures and losses. 

A slight vibration on his wrist draws his attention. Typho looks at his comm, his expression darkening at the code listed. 

A member of an Elder Family on this world. A world not his own, but similar. He knows that this Elder Family member has strong disagreements with former allies of his Senator.Those allies who might want to employ him again. 

A second number pops up. He sighs at his business prospects. Greedy nobles and scumbag information brokers. 

At least he wasn’t the Captain of the Guard for the new Queen. A young woman, slightly older than the norm for Naboo Queens. A puppet—a creature of his uncle. 

_No, instead you’re a mercenary. Scraping the bottom of the barrel_. His gut twists as he realizes the distance of his thoughts for his dead; for his world.

The door to the bar opens, allowing light into the darkness. The other denizens of the bar, his fellow drinkers, shrink from the light. He grins ruefully at the metaphor for his numbness. 

The grin fades as he sees the young woman standing in the light. He shakes his head, then curses at himself in disgust. _Two drinks and you’re seeing ghosts_. 

The woman walks up to him, then reaches down and swallows the dregs of the whisky and ale. He realizes that the woman is not the specter of his Queen.

Merely her double. Her protector.

Sabe’ smiles at him, then touches his cheek. “You’ve been ignoring my calls, Gregar. I could use your help.”

Typho feels his heart clinch. The numbness retreats, a tiny bit at the touch of the woman.

A Handmaiden of Naboo.

+=+=+=+=+=

Ahsoka watches as Selda polishes the top of the bar, his metal-clawed right arm holding the towel expertly. She looks around the bar, sees that the mid-morning drunk rush had not started. 

“Come on in,” Selda says without looking up. His left hand pulls a bottle from underneath the bar, two glasses held in his fingers expertly against the bottle. He continues to polish the bar while pouring a couple of fingers into each glass.

Ahsoka walks up to the bar, then lifts the glass, staring at the dark amber liquid of the whisky. She remembers people in her past lives who had introduced her to various whiskies of the galaxy. She fights the face of one of those from her memory, trying to push the surely dead away. The mind-picture of that face and its sensation of a crooked grin vanishes briefly, but the chasm remains in her chest. Along with faces of others, whose names she recites every day; will Remember until she draws her last breath. 

The thought of one leads to another. She wonders if a Pantoran pirate still lives; the one who had introduced her to both Whyren’s from Corellia and the pirate’s favorite, a rare Tevraki. She wonders that if Lassa Rhayme is still alive, if the offer of a job might still hold true. 

Ahsoka can feel her teeth grinding at the memories, as the emptiness fights to overwhelm her. An emptiness that she thought she had pushed away after Raada. She concentrates on her current predicament.

She might need that job, especially if her little adventure in another Bothan bar has compromised this one. She hesitates before taking a sip of her whisky. She is pretty sure this is how she had wound up in a drunk tank on another world. Ahsoka shakes her head and downs the whisky in one swallow, slamming the glass on the bar. She trusts Selda as she trusts few people left. Months spent on a farming moon, trying to survive an Imperial takeover would tend to build that type of trust. She grimaces at the taste.

Definitely not Whyren’s or Tevraki.

Selda fills her glass with more well whisky. As she pulls it up, she feels his metal claw on her hand. 

“Slow down. The bottle will still be here,” Selda says. 

She rubs her face with her free hand, exhales, before sipping the whisky. 

“You look awful, young one,” her fellow Togruta says. 

She snorts. “Thanks. A hyperspace flight in a stolen shuttle, then sleeping on the streets after abandoning it, trying to figure out if you have a death sentence on you here doesn’t exactly do much for the skin,” she says. 

“Why are you here, then?” 

She is silent for several moments. He waits patiently. Finally she wilts under his gaze. “I’m here to get to Krtsador. To get that information that he promised, somehow,” she replies.

His eye narrows. “You sure? You sure you’re not here for revenge?” he asks, his voice quiet. 

She looks up into the mirror behind the bar. Her eyes are clear, but her face betrays nothing.

Not even to herself. “Selda, I don’t want to go into this. Are you going to help me find a way back to Krtsador? One that doesn’t involve me being killed or becoming a plaything?”

He doesn’t answer. “What does Angler say?” he whispers, using a codename for a certain Alderaani senator. One ultimately responsible for the rescue of Selda and the other Raadans. A rescue facilitated by the young woman sitting in front of him, her blue eyes open and filled with confusion at her path. She looks down and then away.

“You haven’t contacted him, have you?”

She looks back at him. “Not directly, no. I’ve squawked ‘safe’ codes.”

Ahsoka sees the old man stare at her balefully. She meets his eyes defiantly, a bit of spark retuning to them. 

“I think you’re being stupid, Ahsoka,” he says. 

Her anger flares. “What the hell do you know, Selda? I’m trying to make sure I don’t have to look over my shoulder. This is too valuable a place for me to not be able to come here. I’m solving a problem.”

She can’t meet his gaze; the skeptical look on his worn, damaged features. 

Finally, he nods. “Against my better judgement, I know a guy. A Mando. I’ll get in touch with him. He has a slight bone of his own to pick with Krtsador. I do owe you a bit.” He touches her cheek. “But one thing, Ahsoka,” he says, pausing. “You better figure out why the hell you’re doing this. Whether it’s for your own embarrassment, or to recover that data for the movement. Not just for the Senator’s sake, but your own. You have to be honest with yourself.”

He leaves her like that, sitting at a bar, looking at herself in a mirror. 

Ahsoka Tano has no answer for herself, or for Selda..

+=+=+=+=+=

The old Mandalorian watches from a distance as his niece stands guard over a businessman. His lip curls in disgust; Krtsador had started out as a bounty hunter whose quarry usually came back bent, broken, or worse—no matter that they had never been listed as violent. He had made a fortune on nothing but low risk, high bountied jobs. He had usually earned a bonus from the sponsors of the bounties for his treatment of them; a bit of revenge, even if the courts might find them innocent. 

He closes his eyes as Tehlen Skirata is given another menial job by the Bothan and his kinguards. He wonders if she would’ve ever found herself in this predicament if he hadn’t shown his contempt for her new boss, in a very loud fashion, at every opportunity that he was given.

One tiny mistake on a bounty; unknowingly grabbing the wrong bounty, and she is stuck paying off the bounty that Krtsador had sponsored by working for him, doing every shit job that he could find. 

If he could ever prove it, that Krtsador had rigged the job because she was related to him, Kal Skirata, once a renowned bounty hunter and soldier; drill sergeant to Nulls, Alphas, ARCS, and baseline clonetroopers, would rain hell on Krtsador’s little palace.

Now he was stuck blending in with the riff-raff in the Bothan’s audience chamber; with the dozens of supplicants looking for scraps from his table. Kal looks in the mirror, sees his worn pockmarked face, the dark, steely eyes staring back at him. He thinks of his dead, then of his sons—Nulls adopted by him, somehow surviving in the galaxy. 

Even though most of them now profess hatred for him. He shakes his head. He’d wound up hating his father, as well. For about the dozenth time, he realizes how much he misses Illippi, his wife, as well as his blood and adopted children. She would’ve never allowed him to let his children vanish into the galaxy at large, hating him. She had never understood his culture—even if he had been adopted into it.

If she had lived.

He runs his fingers through his tied back long hair, allowed to grow from the military cut. He had stopped using the colored lenses to conceal himself from those who knew him in his youth. He does smile at his thoughts of his children. He thinks of a young woman, now his right hand, who is the chief instructor at his training dojo on Mandalore, in the dome-preserve that is Keldabe. A young woman running from her own past, now trying to clean her ledger. 

He had assured her when he had hired her that her ledger, even written while in Death Watch, was nowhere near as thick as his own. 

He wonders if he had done her any favors, sending her the broken Corellian-Mandalorian with the problematic connections, to train him in his mother’s heritage. Even though he was unable to touch those abilities that might get them all slaughtered by the Empire.

Kal turns his attention back to the pronouncements coming from Krtsador’s dais. He nods briefly at the Zeltron majordomo who locks eyes with him.

His comm buzzes. He walks away from the audience chamber and activates it. 

An old, broken Togruta gazes back him. 

“Got somebody who might be as pissed off as you are at our friend,” Selda says. “I think you might be able to help each other.”

The _Kalbuir_ smiles wolfishly.


	3. Was an open book

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Memories and stubborn paladins

Sabe’ watches as Gregar pushes his plate away. At her insistence, they had left the Tune Inn behind, as well as the assorted vermin that populated it—not just the small insects. She smiles softly as she remembers him tucking into the large nerf-steak without hesitation, once he had learned that she was on a expense account. 

She realizes that he is watching her, the dark gaze from his right eye staring at her, as if making sure that he had memorized her face. Sabe’ thinks that he might be remembering another’s face—most probably the one who she had impersonated all those years ago. 

He reaches out, his large hand moving towards her cheek. At the last minute he stops himself, then brushes the corner of her lips. He brings the thumb back with a tiny bit of sauce from her dinner. With a cheeky grin, he pulls his thumb into his mouth. She feels the heat rise in her cheeks as she looks down.

“Don’t worry. I won’t tell the Handmaiden’s union,” he says. 

She sticks her tongue out at him. “So have you given any thought as to my proposal?” she asks. “About Krtsador and your contact with him.”

His eye narrows, a dark flush moving over his features. “Not really. No. I don’t think I would get very far in the gun-for-hire business if I gave out information on a potential client.” He clinches his teeth. “How the hell did you know about that anyway?”

She looks away. “Two ways. We’ve been getting whatever info we can on him, ever since, he gave an, uh, _employee_ , some issues. I’m monitoring his contacts for interesting names.”

He raises an eyebrow. “And the second way?”

“I’ve been having you followed,” she says matter-of-factly. “Since you came to Alderaan.”

He stares at her. She remembers his tells for his anger. A particular vein above his bad eye starts to pound. He pulls his chair back. 

He stops as she puts her hand on his. She is conscious of the warmth of the back of his hand. She tries to push those thoughts away. He stops, then complicates her attempt to explain herself by slowly rotating his hand until they are palm to palm. He pulls her smaller hand into an easy grasp; waits.

Sabe’ takes a deep breath, then another. “It’s not like that. I’ve been hoping that I could convince you to come work with us.”

One side of his lip quirks up. He licks his lips, further turning her thoughts on their head. _What the hell is wrong with you? You’re a Handmaiden of Nab— Alderaan._

He looks down. “I don’t think I can hold anyone’s life in my hands again again, after—,” he starts. The name is unspoken between them. He shakes his head, a look of pain and guilt crossing over his face. “Did you know, in antiquity, if a Queen of Naboo was assassinated, that the entire guard force and Handmaiden cadre were put to death, as sacrifices to the Wards of Protection?”

She nods. She had seen the same graphic texts that he had, from times before the Republic. “Yeah. An attempt to protect the next Queen or King.” She touches her cheek. “Padme’ wasn’t assassinated. She died. You couldn’t protect her from what killed her.” She doesn’t elaborate further, as she is unsure of his heart.

“My uncle is the Imperial Moff for Naboo. I don’t know if I can go against him. Family is important, even if they have shitty tastes in friends and political benefactors.”

Sabe’ smiles, then places her fingers on his lips. “I think it’s time for you to stop making excuses and feeling sorry for yourself, Gregar,” she says in a whisper. 

He stares at her for a moment. After a moment, he grins. “So which is it? Am I a coward or an Imperial stooge?”

She laughs. She stands up and reaches over the table. His eye widens only for a moment as her soft lips touch his. As their lips move over one another, she is certain that both of them recall a moment in their pasts. When both had cast duty aside and had started to fall into one another. An instant before that duty reclaimed them. Before they had remembered why they were Handmaiden and Guard.

The eye closes as her tongue moves into his mouth, the taste of the red wine on both of their breaths.

+=+=+=+=+=

Bail watches as the stars return to their normal pinpricks. He relaxes back into the chair of his desk. It was his practice to jump away from Alderaan, at least for a short distance, to clear his head, and try to get some work done on his _side job_ as Breha called it. He smiles briefly. The numbers of his aides who were fully involved and engaged in that side job had finally dwindled, as they realized the stress of building an insurgency; the effect on their families.

Not to mention the threat of impending execution, if caught. 

Even his longtime aide, Sheltay Retrac, who had run his staff and had been his right hand after the first year of the Clone War, had left to be with her family—namely her husband, a mysterious artist. Bail had heard that she had given birth to a daughter. He closes his eyes, scrubbing his fingers over his face. They had lost touch with one another except for Light-festival cards in the winter.

His reverie is broken by a flashing light on the console of his desk. He knows that his face goes hard at the sight. He takes a deep breath, then another, before closing his eyes for a half-moment. 

He opens them and touches a button. The holo appears, fuzzy and indistinct as the encryptions sync.

A pair of clear blue eyes, surrounded by white markings and orange skin, look at him without expression. He manages not to grin. _No. There’s expression there. I know her well enough to read her eyes. Anger, mixed with uncertainty; mixed with that damned Jedi stubbornness._

“Hello, Fulcrum,” he says, knowing that they don’t have to bother with pseudonyms with the randomness of these encryptions. Randomness combined with the Empire’s complacency and arrogance. 

After a moment, she nods. “Senator,” she replies, trusting the encryption. 

He lets his teeth worry his upper lip, but outwardly he remains calm. “You’ve managed to step in it pretty well,” he says, forging ahead. 

Her eyes flash with fire, but she calms herself, except for deep, quick breaths. “I did what I had to do,” she says. “I did what I thought was right. You said that we needed to figure out some of the communication protocols between the Imperial fleet and ISB. I found a way to get them,” she finishes. 

He is silent, for a moment, as he gathers his thoughts. “And you managed to attempt to get them from someone who might have compromised you from the start. There were more secure ways to get them than a Bothan information broker who would sell his own mother to the Empire.”

“Just not as quick,” she says. 

He grits his teeth. “Who said it needed to be quick? We’re building a long game, here, Ahsoka. You of all people know this. You were being so damned careful when I found you. It’s only because I happened to see a bit of video that no one else did that I found you. What happened?”

It is her turn to be quiet, to pause her thoughts and words before forging ahead. “Senator, I—,” she starts. Ahsoka closes her mouth. “It’s worked out. My biggest mistake was trying to cultivate him as a more long-term asset. He mistook it for interest on my part. I guess I might need to work on that a bit,” she says sheepishly. 

Bail hides his grin behind a sip of water at her consternation. He grows serious, as his mind travels back to how close that innocence had come to overriding her good judgement. “What about now? Why’re you still on Bothawui Proper? You need to disengage.”

Ahsoka narrows her eyes and cocks her head. He can only see above her shoulders, but he is fairly certain that she has crossed her arms across her chest. As if reading his mind, she straightens. “I know he still has that information, or at least a key to getting it. I need to get it from him.” Her eyes grow as hard as he has ever seen them. “He also needs to be taught a lesson, so that others that deal with him from our movement aren’t harmed.”

Bail stands up. “No. Under no circumstances, are you to engage him. You need to let me handle it. I’ve got others working on it.”

He manages to catch a movement under the pickup; most probably the arms crossing the chest again. “These ‘others’? Are they as good as me? As I recall your relief bench ain’t that deep.” 

Idly, he wonders where she might have picked up that particular word, coupled with a bit of a half-familiar inflection. He’d never heard her use the word before, even though her phrasing is occasionally marked by slang terms—mostly Mandalorian.

He shakes his head. “You let me worry about my bench, _Fulcrum_ ,” he says with emphasis. “I’m not sure whether you’re doing this out of thought for the movement, or for your bruised ego. Do you even know what the hell it is that a spy does?”

She makes to open her mouth, then closes it. Bail allows himself to calm. He tamps down his shame at the harshness of his words. “This is a long game, Ahsoka,” he whispers. “We’re at the beginning of it. Maybe even the warm-ups. I want you to be there to celebrate the end of it.”

She has nothing to say. She can’t meet his eye as she disconnects the comm. 

+=+=+=+=+=

Breha embraces the taller ex-Queen tightly. She feels Neyutnee place a kiss on top of her head. They break apart, and Breha looks up at her. The mischievous smile on her lips and in her dark eyes, the pointed chin—all are the same. All had been concealed by the Queen’s makeup and the worry on her young face as the weight of being a wartime ruler had weighed on her. The Queen of a peaceful world that had seemed to be a particular target for several of the Separatists’ experiments and hidden attacks. 

Breha, as she always does, questions the practice of the Naboo and their teenaged Queens. She knows that the Naboo had come to value the clear, open-eyed judgment of the best of these young women; she wondered at the cost to them—to their well-being, as well as that of their world. She tries not to run down the list of Queens and their fates over the last decade or so, but fails. Neyutnee had only become Queen because Jamilla had decided she had not wanted to lead her people though a war. Breha shakes her head. Jamilla had been several years older than the norm, when she had taken a hard look at herself. 

Breha kisses Neyutnee. Jamilla’s decision and her subsequent election, had taken a toll on this young woman. She, too, had not lasted a full term. Breha’s eyes tear as she thinks of Ney’s successor, lying in a tomb for sitting Queens, so much before her time. 

_Prices._

Breha rests her face on Neyutnee’s shoulder, surreptitiously wiping her eyes on the rich silk. She pushes these thoughts away as they move over and sit on a couch in the entry foyer. 

“It’s good to see you, Ney,” Breha says. 

“You too, your Majesty,” Ney says in her light voice. “I wish it were under better circumstances.”

“I know,” Breha replies. “How is your world?”

“Still reeling from the crackdown. Panaka has managed to keep the arrests and reprisals to a minimum. We’re settling down.”

“What of Kylantha?” Bre asks, daring to speak the new Queen’s name.

Ney looks down. “I don’t know. She’s an enigma. Everyone says she had something to do with the coup, but there’s no evidence of that. Jamilla and I are working to see if we can get someone inside, to at least feel her out.”

“How is Jamilla?”

Ney pauses, takes a deep breath. “You know. The same. Guilt-ridden that she stepped down. She felt like she might’ve been able to make it work with Palpatine. Or she would’ve been the one lying there on the Palace floor.” Her face crumples. “Or she would be the one that wakes up screaming in the night, playing every one of her decisions over and over again in her head.”

Breha pulls the younger woman in tight. For a several moments, even though she is only a few years older than the ex-Queen, she rocks her as she would Leia when she has those inexplicable night terrors.

After a moment, Ney pushes her away. “Speaking of which, I think it’s time to see her.”

Breha checks her comm. “The doctor’s finished with her exam. Let’s go.”

They walk a short distance to the residential wing. Guards bow as the Queens pass; more of them as they go to a little used wing. They come to a simple wooden door. They both look at one another and nod. Breha knocks, then opens the door.

Both of them focus on the young woman sitting near a window. The tall young woman—much taller than either of the Queens, sits staring out the window. Her dark eyes are focused on the distant mountains, her sharp features composed and relaxed. She is dressed in a simple robe. A cup of caf sits next to her, as well as an empty breakfast plate.

 _At least she’s eating again_ , Breha thinks. 

The young woman looks over at them as they enter. She rises, a brief smile of welcome flowing over her face. Breha and Neytutnee look at one another.

As they pull her to them, Breha thinks of the night that this young Handmaiden had been brought to them. Neyutnee and Jamilla, both tiny compared to her, struggling with her long body between them—not trusting anyone to carry her unconscious form to this room.

None of them wanting her existence to be known outside of a select few; lest Naboo’s fate be brought down on the Mother. 

Neyutnee smiles broadly at the Handmaiden she had initiated, in the last year of the war, after another ordeal had tested her. “Hey, No-no. Time to stop being a slug-a-bed.”

For an instant, Breha sees a bit of the young woman’s fiery personality edge through the blankness. 

She smiles to herself. _It’s a start. A beginning._


	4. You used to say live and let live

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Imperial march. Pain and remembrance with Queens and Handmaiden. Respite and a beginning.

Krtsador looks up from the smooth skin of the young woman sitting next to him on his couch. He stifles his annoyance at the polite cough from Galatin as his eyes fall on the guests that his assistant has brought with him. He reluctantly pushes his couch-mate away and brushes crumbs from his front. He paints his most charming smile on, but still allows his eyes to move up and down the body of the most senior guest. 

The tall young woman in the Imperial officer’s uniform doesn’t hide the disgust at his look. She glances at the two armed troopers standing behind her. Krtsador widens his eyes as a look of indecision pushes the look of disgust away. 

He evens his features, after one last look at chest level, thinking that the decision that she is struggling with might just be whether to order the two troopers to open fire on his couch. 

Krtsador shoots a dark look at his assistant, promising painful retribution for not announcing his guests. Galatin somehow manages to stifle his terror. Krtsador jerks his head, sending Galatin and the guards away. 

As the minions file out, he turns his attention back to the officer, smiling carefully again. He wonders what that obviously strong body would look like splayed out on his bed. “What can I do for our glorious Empire?” he asks, oozing solicitousness. 

Or at least what he thinks is solicitousness. It had been awhile since he had needed it. 

A brief, fleeting look over the officer’s dark features would’ve given someone slightly more self-aware than he an inkling that he had missed the mark, but Krtsador ignores it.

“My name is Lieutenant Sloane, of the Imperial Navy. I’m here tracking an escaped prisoner from an Imperial facility on Asrah Prime.”

Krtsador manages to maintain a look of innocence through the near-solicitous expression. “Oh? The first that I’ve heard of it,” he says. “Why here? My geography is very spotty, but I think that Asrah Prime is a long way from here.”

Lieutenant Sloane smiles for the first time. “It’s closer than you think,” she says, a hint of sarcasm in her warm voice. “We’re here because one of the guards was here on liberty. He was seen talking to one of your known minions.”

Krtsador is silent. He raises his paw, steepling the claws, as he has seen humans do when thinking. A nagging voice in the back of his mind expresses some insecurity as to whether he is able to pull it off exactly. Finally, he says, “I have many minions, my dear. I don’t keep up with every one of their side jobs.”

“You might want to start. We’ve uncovered a bit of information linked to this whole affair. Information that the ISB is interested in. I don’t like to make threats, at least not idle ones, but people who deal with the whitecoats tend to find themselves in a great deal of hurt.” She smiles again, this time with less warmth than even before. “Or pain.”

Krtsador feels his bowels turn to water, as his mind races. _How did she make the connection? Is this a setup with that Togruta chak’re?_

He keeps his muzzle calm. “Noted, Lieutenant. I will keep my nose to the ground.”

He waits several minutes for the Imperials to leave his compound. He notices that one of his Mando guards stands still and silent in the corner. “Get out,” he yells. The Mando turns and takes her time leaving the room. 

He opens his comm, to a code on Alderaan. A human, with bronze features and bright blue eyes stares back at him. 

“We have a problem. ISB might be on in this whole thing. If they are, we could all get the chop.”

Dorith Panteer smiles back at him, “Calm yourself, Fey’lan,” he says smoothly. “Let me handle the ISB. Got one of my own.”

Krtsador’s whiskers twitch at the new information. He suddenly wonders if the Togruta is worth it—either for revenge or pleasure. 

+=+=+=+=+=

Breha watches as the young woman fiddles with the end of the sash on her robe. Nola’s dark eyes are fixed on Neyutnee, her former Queen as she talks of inconsequential things. Breha notices that Nola’s eyes show some interest in the light news from Naboo; that she occasionally gives a brief smile that sometimes—only sometimes—travels to her eyes. 

She thinks of sacrifices—of those made and those yet to be made. She wonders if she will be able to justify trying to bring Nola back into the struggle; to use her talents—admittedly undeveloped, but with great potential, to help restore the light. She grits her teeth as she thinks of the necessity of having to use those broken and injured to fight this encroaching darkness.

Of possibly having to expend them in the process. She looks closely at Nola. At something she had never noticed before; or at least had not focused on in the urgency of getting the unconscious Handmaiden concealed and to proper medical attention. 

Her mind flows to another face, a face with the same pale skin, as well as the same skeptical-with-a-dose-of dormant sarcasm and snark just under the surface, waiting to be unleashed. The face of a beloved older sister, now estranged. The knife-stab of memory moves through the nerve endings connected from the pulmonodes to her mind, as she sees Deara’s face twisted in anger and jealousy. 

Anger at being supplanted by a younger sister—supplanted as she saw it, for her choice in lovers. The choice of one whose family; bitter rivals to the Antilles for the Candlewick Throne; would upend the succession of Alderaan’s queens in favor of male heirs again. A choice of succession made for many years, after a series of weak, or downright tyrannical kings. She smiles as she thinks of the product of that choice. A young man with a careful, intelligent smile, with the power of a brilliant mind, as well as a compassionate heart. A compassion in spite of his leanings towards the new order in the galaxy. A dalliance with the rational thought of the Empire, rather than the heart of what the Republic was at its height. 

Her eyes fall on Nola’s long-fingered hands, held over her middle, absently rubbing her belly. A belly that would have been swollen by new life, if fates and the universe had seen things differently. Breha pushes aside her own pain—the pain that rises at some level, every morning. 

Pain now supplanted, _well, maybe not fully supplanted_ , by love—a fierce love for the little girl who had found her way to Breha’s and Bail’s hearts. She takes a deep breath. 

“Nola, you’re not the only one who has lost a child,” she says quietly. She prepares herself for the storm, as those dark eyes flash with anger. To her credit, Nola calms almost immediately. Breha would almost wish for the anger, instead of the lifeless expression in Nola’s eyes. She forges ahead. 

She reaches up to the high collar of her dress, begins to undo the buttons. She feels the cool air on her chest as she opens the top. Nola’s eyes are drawn to the warm, golden glow above her breasts. The glow that has been her companion since her own trials for her Day of Demand as Princess Royal. The glow that has kept her alive since that day. The glow that she has refused to hide under skin grafts and surgery, as is customary with the installation of an artificial heart and lungs. A concealment that most people schedule soon after the surgery.

She has never been most people. 

“I’ve lost four. Nobody can tell me if these losses are a result of these,” she says, pointing to the glow of the pulmonodes, “or if the miscarriages have caused all of the problems that I’ve with the ‘nodes.”

“I named every one of them. Even when I didn’t know the gender. They happened to be born in different seasons. I named them for our names for those seasons. Before Leia, I used to imagine them as toddlers.” She falls silent. 

She hears a small voice from where the young woman sits. She turns around to face Nola. 

“What were their names?”

She closes her eyes. “Atura, for the one in the fall. Friarte for the winter. Jula for the summer—he was most like Bail, in my mind.” She stops, seeing Bail’s pain-stricken face in her mind. “Reba, for the rebirth of spring.”

She fights the tears forming. She sees Neyutnee place Nola’s head on her shoulder, as the tears spill on her ex-Handmaiden’s cheeks. 

“I call him the Finlet,” Nola whispers, looking at Breha. “I won’t tell you what that means,” she says, a bit of fierceness in her tone. Breha sees Neyutnee start at the name. 

An instant before she folds into her Queen’s arms, before the well bursts fully, Nola smiles gently. “Tell me what I can do, your Majesty,” she says. She bows her head, the sobs beginning to edge into her voice. “I exist to serve.”

Ney smiles at Breha over the shoulders of the Handmaiden, acknowledging the main phrase of the Handmaiden’s oath. Breha nods in response and turns away, walking out, before her own dam bursts. 

As she walks out, she contemplates Nola’s question. The face of her current nemesis, the father of that young man with the careful, intelligent smile—her beloved nephew, Dek, looms into view in her mind.

Dorith Panteer. The reason that she is the Queen, and not her sister.

+=+=+=+=+=

Sabe’ drowses against Gregar’s warm skin in the small room. She shivers as his large hand moves over her hip, in an ever increasing circular pattern. She holds her breath, fighting the laughter that might erupt at any moment. She looks over at the gleam in his eye. He looks down and away as her gaze falls on the milky eye with its scar. 

He had never told her how the injury had happened. She reaches over and touches his cheek, bringing his gaze back up to hers. Her thumb touches the edge of the scarring around the eye. Sabe’ reaches up and tracks her lips up the plane of his cheek, circling his wounded eye with brief, tiny kisses. 

After a moment, she lies back in the crook of his arm. 

“You felt good, right?” he asks in a small voice. She grins, moving the expression against his chest. He yelps as he feels her teeth in a particularly sensitive spot. 

“Ya think?” is all that she says in reply. She softens her expression. “I feel good, Gregar,” she says. She relaxes back against him, her eyes closing. 

“But?” he asks gently, this time in a more even tone. 

She remains silent for several moments. He passes the time by gently allowing his mouth to play over her breasts. She takes a deep breath, trying to concentrate on her words. Words that might send him away.

“This felt right, Gregar,” she finally says. “Maybe we should’ve done it those years ago, when we almost scandalized that cleaning droid in the closet, your uncle and his interpretation of the Rule of Comportment between Handmaidens and guards be damned. Might’ve cost us a bit—maybe even everything.” She looks down. “I don’t think Padme’ would’ve begrudged us a moment of light, though.”

“You were close, right?” he asks. 

“Yeah,” she responds. “We kind of grew up together, learning about things—exploring.” She kisses him. “All of us did.” She rises up and moves on top of him. She drops her forehead to his, fighting the grief.

She sees that his flows up to the surface as well. She curses to herself as she thinks of what she must do.

“We can’t do this very often,” she says quietly. “Both of us have too much at stake. Especially if—.” She stops. He doesn’t push. 

“Why?” he asks. One word. 

He looks at her, his eye locked on hers, as other words follow. “Why do we have at so much at stake? Our responsibility to the galaxy died with Padme’. We can go away somewhere and pull our lives into each other.”

As soon as he says it, she can see his face fall with a realization of what he had just said. She doesn’t take him to task.

“I know,” he says. “Neither one of us may be built like that. At least I know that you’re not. Me, I’m not so sure of anything any more. Least of all myself.”

She closes her eyes at his words. “I think you’re full of shit, Typho,” she says. “You could’ve walked away the moment I sat down and finished that nasty concoction you were drinking. You didn’t have to go any further with your contacts and what you’ve learned. But you did.” She opens her eyes. “You are.”

She wonders if she had gone too far, as she sees the vein over his bad eye start a small rhythm. Just as quickly, it calms. 

“I’ve got someone I know on Naboo, who can back you up. Someone my family has known for years. I’ll make contact with her again. She’s close—very close to someone who is probably playing footsie with Krtsador. She’s also got her wits about her. They didn’t give command of an air group to just anybody in the Republic Navy.” She can see him file that information away, before his eye grows mischievous.

“So what ‘s your definition of too often? Once a year? Once a decade?” he asks. “I know you scratch your itches with others.”

“Maybe once a month,” she says with an escaping giggle. She allows the smile to remain. “I’m not sure that you might be an ‘itch-scratch.’ I think we’ve gone through too much for that. Besides, stud,” she says an instant before kissing his nose. “I’m sure somebody will scratch your own itches. You aren’t quiet decrepit, guardsman.”

She gasps as his fingers move southward. “Yeah, well, the night is still young on this ‘once-in-awhile,” he says. “Might show you how decrepit I am.”

Sabe’ stifles any other words with her lips, an instant before he flips her and begins to move his own lips down her body. 

As all coherent thought escapes her, she wonders if she will be able to enact Bail’s plan for Gregor. 

To bring him into the fight with them. 

_For Padme’._


	5. But if this ever changin’ world

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An Imperial drink or two. A once and future Queen’s employee talks to another. Blue milk in a dirty glass.

Rae Sloane takes a sip from her drink, then makes a face. Not exactly Whyren’s, she thinks wryly. She remembers her sister bringing home a bottle on one of her rare trips home from the war. The pride that she had felt; that her sister, the heroic naval officer, had treated her like an adult, even though she was a raw cadet in a regional merchant marine academy. 

Jana Sloane had always treated her like an adult. Even when taking care of her in the small apartment in one of the cityscapes of Ganthel, while their parents worked to make ends meet. She smiles as she thinks of her sister looking up in the light-polluted skies of Ganthel, dreaming of her own flight among the stars. 

It had been a journey filled with adversity. Various naval academies didn’t exactly fall over themselves to recruit officer-trainees from the industrial continents of Ganthel. Few even made it from the Pryde-lands of the veldt, the last continent not encumbered by industry and development.

She sighs, cursing herself under her breath. She gestures to the bartender; points at her water glass only. The elderly, broken Togruta shuffles over to her, giving her a warm smile as he pours the water. She nods and gives him a few more coins, wondering if she can break protocol and smile back at him. 

She rolls her eyes after he returns to the bar. She hears a warm laugh; sees a sly grin in her minds eye. Get over yourself, Rae, her ghost-sister says. It’s not required to have a poker shoved up your ass to be a successful naval officer. 

She closes her eyes against the pain. As it always does, a vision of a young Jedi, a heavy beard and long hair concealing his slightly indistinct features, moves to the forefront of her mind. The Jedi’s face mirrors her own grief, on the day that Jana’s body left Coruscant for the stars. The Republic shuttle rises in the still smoking and smoldering cityscape, a cityscape so much like the part of the world that she and Jana had come from. 

A shadow passes over her table. She looks up to see a tall woman, maybe of her own age, standing over her table. The woman is dressed in civilian clothes, but her bearing is that of one who usually wears a uniform. The manner in which her dark eyes dart around gives an inkling of her true occupation.The woman pulls out a small set of scandocs. Rae nods and points towards the seat opposite. She holds her hand out and feels the warm, strong grip of the other’s for a brief moment. 

“I’m Andressa Divo. Resident ISB agent and apparent expert on Fey’lan Krtsador.”

“Rae Sloane. Thanks for seeing me on such short notice,” Rae says. 

“No problem. Gets me out of some Residency shindig. What do you want to know about my less-than-favorite scumbag?” She waves her hand at the bartender, who brings a Tatooine Sunset, already made.

Rae notices that she has no issue giving the old mixologist a warm smile.

“Kind of a useful informant for me,” she explains at Rae’s questioning look. “Unlike most of them, I don’t feel like I have to take a bacta dip after I talk to him.”

Rae suddenly realizes that she really likes the ISB officer’s straightforward demeanor. She looks at Andressa and says, “Everything. I think he might be involved in a little set-to at a naval garrison.”

“Ahh. The mysterious Underwear Caper on Asrah Prime.”

“The very one.” Rae looks away for a moment. “I may have bluffed him a bit. I said that the ISB was involved.”

Divo grins. “Well, I don’t know about the caper, but there’s a tiny hint of a rumor that there might be some stolen ISB codes and data involved with Krstador.” She taps the back of Rae’s hand on the table. “So maybe your bluff might be working to turn his bowels to water.”

Rae’s eyebrows raise to her hairline as she absorbs this. “So how come I’m the one investigating it and not you, Agent?”

“Please. Call me Andressa,” she says. 

“Rae.”

A dark look crosses over Andressa’s bronze features as she thinks about Rae’s question. “ISB politics. The flitter of data has a suggestion of an origin on a Core World. A Core World that doesn’t have an ISB Station Chief on it, merely a junior Resident, right now. I’ve been told to not to stick my nose in it,” she says, before falling silent, staring into her drink.

“Kinda bothers you, doesn’t it?” Rae prompts.

“Yeah. I come from a long line of cops. My father was a Lieutenant of Inspectors on Coruscant. The Federal District. In spite of this whole ‘security’ thing and spy shit that I seem to spend my day dealing with, it’s what I am at heart. A cop.”

Rae smiles. “So what if some naval officer goes poking into this thing on that Core World? The Navy really wants resolution to this; it was kind of embarrassing.”

After a moment, Andressa smiles and nods. “It might do some good for an ‘amateur’ to stir some shit up,” she says with a wink.

“I’ll try not to trip over the bantha shit on my shoes,” Rae answers dryly.

Andressa doesn’t blink. She looks at Rae with a thoughtful expression. “I don’t think you would trip over anything, Lieutenant,” she says. The warm smile, tinged with only a hint of mischief appears again. “Ever been to Alderaan?”

+=+=+=+=+=

Gregar Typho walks through the hatch of the Pan-Core Clipper, stepping into the shuttleway. He manages to avoid looking at the near-distant Royal Palace through the windows of the arrival lounge. He returns the careful smile of the gate agent. Her blue eyes fix on his face; her expression one of promise as she hands his travel docs back to him. 

As he turns away, he realizes that there is an extra bit of flimsi sticking out of the folder. His gaze narrows at the code written on the tiny piece. 

He enters it into his comm. As he does, an address pops up on the display. His eye closes as his mind locates the address; as he realizes that he won’t be able to avoid traveling to the palace. 

A half hour later, he walks into a small office located across from a restaurant in a rundown area of Theed. The office bears no legend on the door. Typho drops his small checked bag to the scuffed wooden floor. He turns it upside down and pushes in on a panel in a certain way. The panel snaps out and and rises up. A small blaster, identical to the concealment weapons carried by Handmaidens of Naboo, rests in a small frame under the upraised panel. He takes the weapon and places it in the pocket of his jacket. He takes a deep breath. 

As he raises his hand to knock, the door opens. He concentrates on the comforting weight of the blaster and walks in.

A desk faces him. One chair behind, two in front. All three are empty. He turns slowly towards the window. A figure of medium height stands in front of the window, her eyes on the shabby restaurant. She turns to him. Her dark eyes look him up and down. The expression on her face is one of appraisal, but not one due to his manly physique, he is sure. 

His thoughts are confirmed when she locks her eyes onto the pocket with the blaster located in it. He smiles at her, taking a better look at her face. Her elongated eyes crinkle slightly at his smile. She reaches up with her left hand, running it through her dark hair. Her right hand remains at her waist. He notice the streaks of blue that frame the black next to her face. He notice that her thin frame is as coiled and taut as a spring. 

“Commander Yung?” he asks. 

One corner of her lip quirks up. “Haven’t gone by that in about six months. Ever since the new management of the Republic fleet decided I should seek opportunities in the private sector. Call me Hana, Captain,” she finishes. 

He matches her expression. “About as long as it’s been since I was called that. My name’s Gregar.”

They look at one another for a several moments. Hana opens her mouth, as if to speak, then closes it.

“You’d think we’ve never done this before,” he says.

She visibly relaxes. “It’s been awhile. I gather you’re here to help another of our world?”

“I am,” he says simply. “You have some information for me?”

“Not yet. I’m on my way for a job interview. Can’t be the trophy wife of the Dai-Lin forever.”

He stifles his reaction to her words. The wife of the ‘Big Shot’. The head of the Exalted and Noble House of Shaizan Financial. 

Rumored financial backer of a certain Bothan. He nods. “Who is your job interview with, if I may ask?”

Hana looks away. “The Queen,” she says tersely. 

He says nothing. 

“I have to build a future. I might be able to help my world. I don’t know.”

Typho nods after a moment. “I understand.” He changes the subject. “What do you think you might be able to find out?”

She turns back to the window. “I’m trying to figure that out. My husband seems to come to this greasy spoon every week. I’m looking to get something on him that our mutual friend might be able to use.”

He breathes in, wondering if the tidbit he has might help, or hinder. “Do you know who owns that place?”

She shakes her head, perplexed. “No. Doesn’t seem to have much business. It might be the perfect place for him to meet his bit on the side.”

Gregar decides to throw all of his cards in. “No. Don’t think so. Your husband might be in bed with someone, but it isn’t a mistress. That restaurant prides itself on shitty service and low customer traffic. It’s a front, owned by the Antols.”

Her eyes widen with recognition. She turns back to the view of the street. She worries at her lip with her teeth. 

“So my husband might be owned by the biggest crime family on Naboo?”

He laughs. “Well, biggest might be a bit of a stretch. They’re the only crime family on Naboo. Branched out a bit to the Core, as well as the Mid Rim.”

The expletive that she uses would do any of her naval colleagues credit.

+=+=+=+=+=

Ahsoka Tano walks into the small room. The conversation stops; most of the still-conscious eyes fall on her. She shakes her head, wondering if she’ll be able to trust whoever it is that would frequent this place with her life. 

The bar makes the place that she had found for Selda to bartend in look like the lounge of Delmon’s on Coruscant. She moves up to the bar and leans forward, resting her elbows on the scuffed synthwood surface. The bartender, a heavyset human, stares at her blankly. She points to the collection of bottles stacked haphazardly against the back of the bar. He continues to stare at her, then steps up and reaches under the bar. Her eyes flash as he places a glass of blue milk on the bar in front of her. 

She stares back at him, then takes the glass and drains it in one swallow. He shrugs and turns away. She leans back on the bar, closing her eyes, reaching out carefully to the Force. As always, she feels nothing that would indicate any of her kind in the area. 

She wonders if she will ever feel that familiar tickle in the Force, the joy of another Force-user in her vicinity. A part of her in more of a dark place feels like she may only feel that tickle as the last thing that she feels. The next to last if she counts the lightsaber thrust into her back and heart from one of the dark-wielders that she had faced on Raada. For some reason, she doesn’t dwell on the fact that she had defeated him; defeated him with her bare hands and the Force, cleansing the crystals that rest in the sabers on her hips, of their darkness. 

A tall glass slides in front of her. She looks down at the heavily iced concoction with an umbrella haphazardly sticking out of it. She shakes her head as she sees the pale pink layer at the top. The distinctive sign of the cloying sweetness of something that her innards will reject out of hand. She pushes it away, then gives a careful smile to the tall blue being standing next to her, his red eyes looking her up and down. She unconsciously looks for an ugly, high- crowned hat anywhere in his vicinity. 

“Whatsamatter, darling?” the oversized Duros asks. “Don’t like my hospitality?”

Great, she thinks to herself. Guess I’ll have to fight, rather than wait on my contact in peace.

She feels two other large shapes move behind her. She looks up into the small, cracked mirror. She feels her eyebrow markings rise at the two Trandoshan females, identical in looks and disposition standing directly behind her. 

One places her hand on Ahsoka’s shoulder. “You know, our little brother is considered quite a catch in certain circles.” Ahsoka grits her teeth as she feels another large hand on her ass, as the Duros pulls her in closer to him. Her mind instinctively reaches out and shoves him slightly back. He shakes his head as he tries to figure out how he has moved half-a meter down the bar. 

Ahsoka pushes him from her thoughts as well, as she turns and looks down at the first sister’s hand on her shoulder. Her eyes fall on a strange tattoo embedded on the scales. A circle, constructed of two different colors, crimson and gold. The symbol gives the impression of a rising sunrise—a dawn. She files it for the future. “I wouldn’t want to meet anyone that might belong to his circle-jerk,” she finally says. She winces at the clumsiness of her snark. _You’re off your game, Snips _, she hears in her mind.__

__She feels the other Trandoshan’s hand yank on her left arm, in a bruising grip on her bicep. She jerks free of the first one, turning and swinging the knife that she had managed to bring up from her boot over the broad forehead of the one on her left. She feels the giant hand of the second thug grasp her face and head. Her mind flashes back to a distant moon, her much younger self fighting for her life against the son of a Trandoshan hunt-leader. She feels the dirt of the that moon against her rear lek, an instant before she had managed to kill the hunter. Her mind incongruously flashes to the green and yellow convor hovering above her, looking as if it would dive and attack Dar._ _

__The first Trandoshan screams, her hand clutching the deep cut, distracting the one with the hand on her face. Ahsoka strains, fighting to keep her head from slamming into the bar. The Duros grabs at the wrist holding the knife. Ahsoka drops the knife and shifts her body slightly. Her right fist connects with the ‘great catch’s’ nose as he comes back in. She brings her left fist into the second Trandoshan’s ear, once, twice, three times._ _

__She allows a tiny movement of her small finger to shift both Trandoshans’ heads into each other and away from her. The Duros is already down._ _

__The bar is silent as she looks down at the three suitors on the floor, clutching various injuries. She notices her knife resting on one’s leg. She reaches down with right foot to the point and flips it up into her hand. The movement ends with the knife back in its boot sheath with a flourish. She turns back to the bar. A full glass of beer sits in front of her. As she lifts it to her mouth, she hears more presences hurtling towards her._ _

__Two other thugs fly into the bar, head first. She finally turns and looks behind her as she finishes the beer, wiping the foam from her lips._ _

__A tall human stands there, his hand on his hips. Despite his age, his breathing is even as his dark, hard eyes take her in._ _

__“Wow. I see that you’re using your questionable charm on yet another set of scum, my dear,” he says in a gravelly voice._ _

__Ahsoka searches her memory for the familiar face and voice. She finds it in a similar establishment, as the world burned around her._ _

__She closes her eyes, remembering the town on the outskirts of Sundari. The capital city of Mandalore. This fighter’s homeworld._ _

__“Hello, Master Sergeant,” she says to Kal Skirata. “Been awhile.”_ _


	6. In which we live in

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A deal is struck. The two parties might be worse off than before. The banker and his client plan. The Queen makes a hire.

Ahsoka follows Skirata through the back alleys of the spaceport. She marks her path out of anything he might lead her into with her innate sense of direction. One corner of her mouth quirks up as she remembers those lessons on her birthworld with Shaak Ti and her padawan. As always, any thoughts of Taliesin Croft stabs in the center of her chest. She realizes that she has missed the recording of one turn in her mind. She notices that Skirata has stopped and is gazing at her, his eyes narrowed.

“Keep your focus, little girl,” he says, his voice hard. She feels her own feet locking to the street as her arms go across her chest; she recognizes the ‘drill sergeant’ gaze. 

“I’m not one of your shinies, _old man_ ,” she says. 

“Then act like it,” he replies. “I’m apparently taking a chance on you. I’d like to know that I can trust who’s backing me up when I go against an organization like Krtsador’s.”

“Who said you were doing the ‘going up against’?” she asks dryly.

He huffs his breath out; she can tell he is biting back a retort. Without another word, he turns and continues forward, for another two meters or so. He ducks into a small, nondescript wooden hatch, next to a closed garage door. Only a bare spot where the name of the establishment might be can be seen. 

Ahsoka follows him, marking the final cross street of her path. Her eyes adjust to bright work lights in the bay. Speederbikes in various stages of repair rest on the floor and antigrav racks. 

Her eyes fall on Skirata and another, shorter figure. The young woman, a few years older than Ahsoka, stands frozen in Skirata’s embrace. Her dark eyes flash with anger in her bronzed face. A small jewel on the right side of her lower lip flares in the light, giving the impression of additional flashes of anger. After a moment, he gets the message and breaks free. The mechanic puts her spanner down on a table, then crosses her arms. 

Ahsoka’s eyes a couple of tattoos on her forearms as she hears Skirata and the young woman converse in low tones. Her eyebrow markings rise as she recognizes the harsh, clipped words of Mandalorian.

+”Is she your next midlife crisis, you old bastard?”+ she asks.

“ _Cyarika_ ,” he says. “Cyn—,”

+”Don’t you ‘sweetheart’, me. I’ve told you about bringing your bits on the side around here, then expecting me to take you back when it inevitably blows up in your face,”+ she says. 

Ahsoka’s anger spikes, then calms.

Slightly. 

“+This bit on the side can understand every word that you’re saying, sweetie,+” she says.

She sees Kal’s wry grin as Cyn stares at her. It fades when she turns her dark eyes on him. 

“So. Talk, old man,” Cyn says. 

“Cyn Elder, this is—,” he stumbles. 

“Ashla,” Ahsoka adds, falling back to an old alias. She quashes the incipient grief as she thinks of the youngling from Bear Clan.

Cyn’s eyes narrow. She stands watching both of them, then spins and walks out of the room. Ahsoka notices that she passes two sets of _beskar’gam_ , one Skirata-sized, the other smaller.

“She’s okay. I might pay for it later,” he says.

“Could be painful, judging from how she carries herself,” Ahsoka observes. “So why should I trust you? Selda says you might have a beef with Krtsador?”

“Used to do a bit of contract work for him. Made the mistake of bringing my niece into it. I did something to piss him off. He made it where she was bound to him because of a failed bounty job. I want her out of there and free. Simple as that.”

Ahsoka nods. “He has some information that I need for some business contacts of mine. Also might want to have some words with him about how he double-crossed me.”

His eyes harden. “Don’t care about your crusade. I don’t even care how you survived Mandalore when every other Jedi I know didn’t. I might help you with those words, if that’s what you want. Never knew a Jedi who wanted revenge.”

“Not a Jedi, Kal,” she says, looking away. 

“I’ve heard that before—,” he starts. He bites back his words. 

Ahsoka files that for later. “I guess we can give it a try. As long as you keep your girlfriend out of my way.”

“You might want to stay out of hers. Got a line on a couple of things he’s involved in. Seems like he might be balancing some spike-balls in the air. Any of them could fall on him, between the Naboo, the Alderaani, and ISB.”

Ahsoka’s stomach clinches at the mention of the middle group of targets.

+=+=+=+=+=

Krtsador places his drink by the table, jerking his head at the various minions in his audience chamber. He takes a deep breath, then activates the holocom. The blue fuzziness fades into the bland features of a financial master. _Or at least one who inherited the title_ , Krtsador thinks dryly. 

Fantos Shaizan, the _Dai-Lin_ , the ‘Big Shot’ of Shaizan Financial. An entity known the galaxy over as the Exalted and Noble House. Krtsador grins to himself. _Particularly by anyone named Shaizan._ The title had been awarded centuries ago by a Naboo Queen who should’ve known better. 

Shaizan looks at him from the image. His dark eyes narrow as they identify the caller. His thick blond mustache twitches once, twice, then is still. “Krtsador,” he says simply, his voice dropping the temperature of the comm-waves.

“ _Dai-Lin_ ,” Krtsador replies. “You wanted to see me?”

The mustache twitches upwards on one side, for a brief instant. “Want is a strong word. I’d like to know who the hell has authorized you to dig into some of the financials of Naboo and my company. No, actually, Queen Kylantha would like to know.”

Krtsador gives his wolfish grin. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about, milord,” he says smoothly. “I’ve not been digging into your beautiful world’s affairs.” _Much_.

“I could make this an official inquiry, on behalf of the Queen. Moff Panaka is very fond of his new Queen,” Fantos says. 

“I heard he was fond of Apailana as well, but it didn’t stop the Empire from slaughtering her and her Handmaidens.” Almost as soon as he speaks the words, Krtsador wishes that he could take them back. Not because he regrets them, but they chill the atmosphere for business.

Thankfully, Shaizan doesn’t rise to the riposte. “Perhaps, Krtsador. But we’ve had positive dealings before. I’d hate to have the relationship go away.”

After a moment, Krtsador nods. “I can’t go into a lot of detail, but another client wishes to work with you on a matter of mutual interest. One that might cement your House’s ties to the current regime, as well as maybe bring you back to the accepted bosom of your family on another world.” He smile again, this time with a tiny bit more warmth. “It might help you cement your foray into the restaurant industry on your world.”

Shaizan keeps his expression even. “You’ve piqued my interest. But tread lightly, snooper. I’ve already been dealing with my so-called ‘family’ from Alderaan. I’m not sure that I want to get any closer. I’ve done alright without them.” The image winks out.

Krtsador absorbs what he has heard. He activates his comm again, this time to that now-familiar code on Alderaan. Dorith Panteer’s piercing eyes stare back at him. 

“He might be interested, milord,” Krtsador says without preamble.

Panteer smiles. “Good. Maybe all of us will get what we want. I get the throne of Alderaan, Fantos gets closer ties to his family and deeper claws into the Alderaan financial world, and you get a big retainer.” At that, he cuts the connection.

Krtsador closes his eyes. He sees in his mind what he wants more than money. A smartassed Togruta strapped to a table, an Imperial droid floating down next to her head, its needle touching the skin in front of her lek, an instant before injecting nerve-fire into her brain.

His eyes snap open as he realizes how easily his view of that event could come from the execution-table next to her.

+=+=+=+=+=

Hana Shaizan sits in the hard wooden chair, awaiting her interview. She watches as several young women, clad in light hooded robes, all in scarlet, glide past her. Their eyes, under the slight peak of the hood, give her a quick once-over. Hana bites back a smile after the last group passes. The gazes had been open, with no hint of the furtive. There had been slight warmth in them, but mostly a business-like surveillance of her threat level. _The reconnaissance force_ , she thinks sardonically.

She comes back to the present as she realizes that a taller version of those scarlet-clad scouts is standing in front of her. _Great, Lancer. Way to impress with your awareness_ , flits through her mind. Her heart stabs with only a brief hint of pain as her Republic callsign moves into her consciousness for the first time in months. She shakes her head again, then inclines it to the young woman. She notices the gold lace knot on her right shoulder. The symbol of the _Sarduka_ , the First among the Handmaidens of Naboo. 

“Come with me, Commander,” the woman says, looking over her with those same inquisitive eyes, this time in caf-brown. As she turns, she catches a glimpse under the hood of a large, puckered scar on the First’s face, right under the sculpted cheekbone on the left. She turns back. “I am Storae’,” she finishes.

Hana follows her down the corridor, bypassing several ornate doors. Their heels clicking on the marble is the only sound. Storae’ stops and turns to her right. She presses on a panel in the middle of a large mural. A larger panel, one that both can just duck into, opens. Hana takes a deep breath, then follows Storae into the small room. 

She sees a figure standing in front of a small window, the light of Naboo’s star playing over. The woman turns and eyes Hana with almost the same intense scrutiny of her Handmaidens. Hana unconsciously straightens as the laserlike blue eyes move over her. Before her eyes fall to the carpeted floor in a bow, she is conscious of high cheekbones under the intense gaze.

She returns her eyes to the Queen. Kylantha’s lips quirk upwards into a slight smile; an expression that grows more broad and spreads to her eyes. Hana’s expression stays even, but she allows herself a slight return of the smile.

“Commander Shaizan,” the Queen says in a warm, measured tone. “Hana.” She walks over to the small desk, a desk with a single datapad. She reaches out with her right hand and takes Hana’s in her own.

She glances down at the datapad. As her eyes shift back to Hana, Hana sees one tiny flaw in her otherwise perfect features. A slight overbite in the wide mouth. She realizes that the Queen is clad only in a simple striped skirt and cream blouse, with a wide leather belt splitting the two garments, rather than the ornate robes Hana would’ve thought her everyday garb. 

“You have an impressive record,” the Queen continues. “A full commander. A very talented Y-Wing pilot. One of the heroes of the Battle of Coruscant.”

Hana breathes out at the recitation. “It might be, if you discount the rather major glitch at the end of it. Being nearly put up against a wall and shot.”

The Queen nods. “A bit of a glitch. It just might be an indicator of independent thought. Something I value.”

Hana raises her eyebrows in surprise. She allows her expression to calm. “Not exactly something I’d think you’d value, given your leanings.” Hana waits for the quick hand on her arm, signaling that the job interview was over. 

Kylantha shakes her head. “You shouldn’t believe everything you hear, Lancer,” she says evenly. Hana’s eyes narrow at that memory. “I know what you’ve heard. That I’m merely a puppet of the Empire. That I was a part of Apailana’s death.” She looks away. “I was Princess of Theed. I could’ve very easily been lying there next to her in the Great Hall. The office of Queen could’ve died that day.”

Hana listens, fascinated in spite of herself. 

“Panaka took me to his compound. He made sure that I survived and was not ‘tainted’ with her ‘treason’. He used his influence with Palpatine, his friendship and loyalty, to maintain at least a semblance of the old.” She looks over at Storae’, who nods encouragingly. “I have to maintain the balance.” She picks up a glass of water, downs half of it.” She stares at the glass.

She reaches over and touches Storae’ on her damaged cheek. The Handmaiden closes her eyes, as if remembering. “As you might notice, my Handmaidens don’t really resemble me. They have a different job, now. They are my eyes and ears on the world and in the galaxy. They still give a semblance of protecting me, but that falls mostly to my Guards, now.” She turns and moves around the table. Hana feels her hands lifted, then squeezed tightly. “That’s why I need you. I need you to lead my Guards and to watch my back.” She smiles softly. “To be my counsel and conscience as I try to maintain Naboo in the darkness.”

Hana bows her head to the Queen; to hide her reeling thoughts. “I won’t be a puppet,” she finally says. 

Kylantha grins in a glance at Storae’. “I don’t expect you to be. I’m pretty sure that you’ll devise a painful death for me, if I betray Naboo.”

Hana laughs. “Most assuredly, Your Majesty.”

“Please. In private, call me ‘Lantha.” Her expression grows serious “Our first job, might involve family, for you. One of our operatives, a Handmaiden in training on Bothuwui, has informed us that your husband might be involved in something that could harm a fellow world’s Elder Family. I realize that you might want to recuse yourself; you’ve only been married a few months, but I want to make sure those running our financial concerns aren’t in danger of screwing the anooba.”

Hana’s eyes widen slightly at the earthy expression, coming from the cultured accent. “I’ll be fine. Whatever is needed for my world. I’ve discovered a few things that give me pause about my choice in husbands.” She stops, then stares at Kylantha for a moment. “This was the quickest damned job interview I’ve ever had.”

Kylantha shares a quick laugh with Storae’. “My dear Chief here, had already convinced me you were right for the job.” She reaches down and pulls up a piece of wood from under the table. An ornate, half-length cane, with a weighted top. “This is used mostly for ceremony. But it can be quite a formidable weapon for one schooled in the cane-work from your region, Soruna.” She reaches out and draws Hana into an embrace. “Welcome, my Captain of the Royal Guard,” she says formally into Hana’s ear. 

Hana Yung-Shaizan feels something she hasn’t felt in over a year, as her hand closes on the watch-cane. 

_Purpose._


	7. Makes you give in and cry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A shitkicker from the Navy turns the ISB upside down. Memories of living and dead. Double and triple-deals; the price.

Probationary Agent Raisa Horan sits at her desk, attempting to look busy. She tries to decide if she is lucky to be assigned to a solo office so soon after her Academy graduation, or unlucky in that the reason that she had been assigned to a solo office is that there really is nothing for her to do on her homeworld. 

She decides that it might be the latter. She closes her eyes and thinks of how hard she had striven to get off of Alderaan, from under the eye of certain family influences. Family that wouldn’t even acknowledge her existence, except when he wanted something. 

She sighs, then looks down at herself. She brushes the crumbs from her latest meal from her white uniform, then actually closes the front of the tunic. She curses herself as the disapproving glance of her instructor from the ISB academy, a former Republic navy admiral, in her mind’s eye. 

The vision is replaced by that of the contempt from that Alderaani family connection. One that was keeping a secret from her mother’s side. A secret that could spell the end of her career, as well as probably ensure that she faces the blaster muzzles of an Imperial firing squad, for a family connection to a proscribed Order. She counts herself lucky that she had never manifested any of the arcane powers of that Order. 

The door opens to her office. She stares balefully at the fleet trooper assigned to guard the door to the office of the acting Resident Agent. The trooper somehow is able to stifle her fear as Raisa rises to her full height. The trooper laughs at something that the person waiting to be admitted to the inner sanctum, then turns away. 

A tall young woman walks in, her service cap under her arm. She looks at Raisa, her eyes falling downward to meet Raisa’s eyes, even at her full height. Raisa feels the heat of rising anger; of one whose height has been looked down on her entire life. 

“I’m Lieutenant Rae Sloane of the Imperial Navy. I’ve been charged with investigating the destruction of Naval property and escape from one of our facilities.” She pulls an extra code cylinder from the sleeve near her shoulder. One more than a junior lieutenant might bear.

Raisa looks at the device, then pushes a datapad towards Sloane, without a word. She glances down at the information outlining the naval officer’s authority. “I don’t care,” she says. “I’m not interested in anything outside of my own work.”

“Did you happen to see the signature on that? It’s signed by a senior ISB agent.”

Raisa glances back. “Sorry. Don’t know a Dav Kolan. Not in my chain of command.”

Sloane breathes out. “You might want to. You do see his number right? ISB-010? I’m just a shitkicker from the Navy, but I do know my sums. ‘010’ is slightly higher than what is it? ‘65307’?”

Raisa allows her eyes to widen at the woman’s knowledge. “What do you want?” she asks begrudgingly. “I don’t investigate those crimes, at least not at that low level.”

Sloane smiles without showing her teeth. “Well, my investigation has led me here. A person involved in this, may have information on some purloined ISB communications protocol. Protocols that are involved in the security of naval vessels.”

Raisa’s bowels clinch at the description of the protocols. She manages to keep her expression calm. “Haven’t heard anything of it,” she says. “I’ll keep my ear to the ground. I think you might be the last to know, though. I’ll inform my superiors.”

Sloane stares at her. She nods and turns to go. She stops, then looks at Raisa, her expression hard, before a smirk grows on her face. “One thing about those protocols,” she says, holding up her code cylinder. “If they’ve been anywhere near an unauthorized computer, it show up as an idiosyncratic trace code. Just thought you might want to know.”

Raisa waits until the naval officer has left before opening her personal comm. An older male, his gray hair cut in a sharp flattop, stares at her with gray eyes that are almost as sharp.

“I told you never to call me; I’d call you,” he says. Nels Somar, Director of Peace and Planetary Security of the Sovereign world of Alderaan, stares at his daughter, with something other than fatherly love. 

Raisa grits her teeth, contempt swelling. “You might want to hear this. You can tell whoever’s pulling your strings that the Navy might be poking around. I’ve got no damned control over whatever they might find. Especially since that hypothetical data that they seem to be playing with has a tag.”

Whatever his faults, Somar remains calm. “You need to find out how the Navy knows. They have a reputation for playing loose with other people’s secrets.”

“So, apparently, does the PPS,” Raisa says darkly. 

“You might want to show some respect, dear. Wouldn’t want you to come to an unfortunate end.”

She smiles. “Yeah. Especially since you might be lying next to me against that wall, ‘Pops’.”

+=+=+=+=+=

Ahsoka enters the large room, feeling every eye on her. She opens her Force sense’s door slightly, scanning the room. Most of the various denizens of the audience chamber only give off more base interest in her form; there are no overt threats.

The owner of the room sits on a low couch, his eyes leading the looks and base thoughts of his minions and supplicants, over her body. She steels herself; forces a smile in Krtsador’s direction. She makes sure that her razor sharp predator’s incisors show, as well.

“Hello, my dear,” he says. “My contacts didn’t tell me of your obvious beauty, when they mentioned your interest in certain information.” She manages to keep her bile down as he sends his tongue over his muzzle.

She shakes her head. “I thought you would only be interested in the beauty of my money,” she says, as smoothly as she can.

Krtsador shoos the young Twi’lek woman off of the couch. “I can focus on more than one type of beauty, my dear,” he replies. “So tell me, what would a young woman such as yourself have a desire for that type of information?”

She tries to ignore the obvious figurative pat between her montrals. _Oh, ‘dear_ ’, she thinks. _I just want to set the galaxy on fire. At least the Empire_. She pushes the thought away. “I thought that your policy was ‘no questions asked, ‘dear’,” she says.

The slight bit of irony in her tone seems to go over his upraised ears.

“Call me Fey’lan,” he says smoothly. His tone grows harder. “That policy is for established customers,” he continues. “Not a mere slip of a girl who shows up wanting high-tier information that could land me in a cremation chamber.”

She grins, allowing those teeth to appear again. “Why don’t we talk in private?” she asks, allowing a bit of throatiness in her voice. Or, at least what she _thinks_ is throatiness.

Krtsador eyes her for a moment. He nods, then jerks his head to his majordomo. The room is cleared in record time, with a minimal amount of blows.

“Why don’t you come sit next to me, my dear?” he asks.

Ahsoka shakes her head. “No, I think that I’ll stand there. Maybe after the foreplay is over.” She tosses a credit chip to him. His eyes widen as he sees the balance. To his own credit, he doesn’t drool.

“Interesting. I’m assuming this is a downpayment?” 

“Maybe,” she says, noncommittal. “Depends on whether you can deliver.”

He matches her grin. “I like you, dear. But I need some more information.” He holds his paw up. “Not anything sensitive; just some references.”

She speaks one word, a word in the language of a world she had nearly died on. A word that describes a group that one of her allies had been affiliated with as Mandalore had burned.

Krtsador turns to his majordomo, a member of a race that Ahsoka remembers meeting only one example of. A young woman on a pirate ship before her world dies. She remembers the young woman’s crimson skin lighting up with a smile as she had brought Ahsoka her meal, while she had worked on the _Opportunity’s_ hyperdrive. A part of her, much lower than her brain, recalls the strange feeling of lust that had come over her, before the young Zeltron had turned away. Feelings that might’ve had something to do with accepting Lassa’s offer of her bed, later that same ship’s day. 

She grits her teeth. _Don’t need to be thinking with that part, right now_ , she thinks. She manages to push away more painful memories, as well. The sight of a pair of green eyes looking down at her, with new emotions flowing from both of them. 

The majordomo nods and leaves. She smiles at Krtsador. “I’ve shown you mine. Could you show me a bit of yours?” She winces, hoping that she won’t see more of his than she bargained for.

Fortunately, his greed outweighs his lust, for now. “Perhaps. Let me check your references.” _I hope that those references are no longer able to give any negative reviews of their dealings; that Bail’s money is good on Mandalore._

Ahsoka starts awake as her head falls from her hand and strikes the table. Her mind reels with the memory of how she actually got herself into this whole mess. 

Once again, as she thinks of the few months in her role as Fulcrum, she wonders if she is cut out to be a spy. Her training as a Jedi had not prepared her for this role, only a couple of instances in which she had relied on deception, under the eye of her master and his master, save lives. Including an entire colony world of her own people.

She feels the uncertainty prick at her entire being, as she sees that lives might be in her hands. Not just her own, if she fails at this. Especially with the added threat to Alderaan thrown in by Krtsador, relayed by Kal Skirata.

The very reason that she had told Bail that she would never again lead troops into battle.

She pushes the dark thoughts away, to replace them with others. The sight of those green eyes in her mind; the memories of Lassa and the young Zeltron, whose name she had never learned, cut through her heart. The different gaze in those eyes, the gaze of one who has realized that she has become an adult—not just on Shili, as she had when she had taken teeth, but in the eyes of the Republic, as well. In the newfound maturity; in her form, as well as her mind and heart.

She glances over at the mirror on the wall of the small, two-room attic. She tries to see herself as he had seen her. In the intervening couple of years, her face had lost even more of the baby fat, as she had always referred to it; it is even leaner. Her blue eyes, that had once taken up half of her face with the other half taken up by her Smirk, as Croft had once described her to Shaak Ti (with her standing in front of them both), are the oldest part of her. She manages to bring her trademarked expression to her lips and eyes; that hadn’t changed much. 

She had known that her own gaze had looked upon Taliesin Croft in a different light, too. They had both realized that not just the separation of time and the experience of her departure from the Order had changed them and their feelings for one another. She closes her eyes, seeing his face again, as she had last seen it. Lying asleep on the pillow of Lassa’s bed, Lassa asleep on the side opposite from the one Ahsoka had vacated. His face peaceful in sleep, a slight smile on his lips, just visible through the heavy beard that she had made fun of from the first time he had grown it. She had run her fingers over his forehead, then through his hair—hair that had been cropped closer to the skull than the forest she had remembered

Her breathing suddenly increases, as she chokes back a sob. She tries to stand, but slips down, landing on her ass. She pulls her arms around her knees as she fights for breath. She pulls her knees in tight to her chest, as if willing herself to shove air from her lungs and draw it back in. She falls to her side, struggling to keep from bursting out into wracking sobs. Only one manages to escape as she manages to push those thoughts—the thoughts of her dead, from her mind, once again. 

_Some goddamned superspy_ , she thinks, as her breathing returns to something close to normal. After several moments of focusing on nothing but the in and out of her calming breathing, she gets up from the dusty floor of the tiny attic. “I’m going to finish this,” she says to herself. “It’s time to bring a couple of those spike balls down on his furry head.”

As she walks down the stairs of the attic, she doesn’t see the young woman standing at the door of the other small room of the attic, a troubled expression on her face. 

Cyn Elder reaches into a hidden pocket of her armor’s bodysuit, pulls a comm out.

“It looks like everything might be in motion,” she says to the modulated voice that answers. “We might be able to get a leg up on getting that information. Plus putting the Bothan in his place.”

“All right,” the voice answers, gravelly even with the scrambler. “You might need to head offworld, sooner than we thought. Something’s breaking out on Alderaan.”

+=+=+=+=+=

Kal takes a deep breath and walks into the audience chamber. Conversation stops as the collective sets of eyes fall on the tall figure in full Mandalorian armor; the jaig eyes in blood red over the T-visor in gray. He doesn’t hesitate; pulls his _buy’ce_ from his head, to remove all doubt as to his identity. 

“Kill him!” Krtsador screams. 

The guards, especially the Bothan ones, pull up short at his glance. He grins. “Might be harder than you think, Krt, old boy,” he says. “Relax your whiskers. I’m not here to kill you, even though I’m dressed for it. Besides, if you kill me, you might lose out on the information I have on a certain pain-in-your-haunches Togruta you and your minions have been whining about all over town.”

After a moment, Krtsador waves off the gunsels. He looks at another, shorter figure in similar armor. Kal sees him sneer at his niece for a moment; the fact that she hadn’t been one of the guards who had moved towards him. Kal smiles at Tehlen, her carbine is up; its muzzle is nowhere near him, but very casually pointing somewhere near a location on Krtsador that the Bothan seems to be inordinately proud of. A body part that may have gotten him in the situation that he’s in. Kal gives a quick shake of his head. The muzzle tracks to the floor. 

Kal can almost see the young woman’s smirk behind the T-visor.

“Talk fast, Skirata,” Krtsador says. “Where is she?”

“All in good time, Fey’lan,” Kal says. “Let’s talk about what I want out of this.”

“Maybe I don’t give a shit about what you want, old man,” the information broker says darkly. 

Kal laughs. “Same old Krtsador. Let your ego get in the way of what you want. He points towards Krtsador’s left paw. “How are those fingers? Growing any closer to getting back to the correct angle? Rather than a right one?”

Krtsador moves the appendage out of view. “That’s none of your concern.”

Kal pulls a cigar from his belt and strikes the lighting-tip on his _beskar’gam_. He pulls it to his lips and draws on the fragrant leaf. He closes his eyes, waiting for the explosion from the couch. He hears a cough; opens his eyes and sees Krtsador waving the smoke away.

“You could’ve had a great deal of money from the Unwanteds; everybody would’ve been happy. Instead you had to try and put your fingers where they weren’t wanted. Hence the broken ones. Then you compounded it by dropping a decicred on her.”

“How do you know all that, old man?” Krtsador asks, rising angrily.

“She told me.”

Krtsador sits down. “You’d betray her? After all this?”

Kal stares at him. “Family’s more important than anything, Fey’lan,” he says after a moment. 

“What do you want, Kal?”

He points to Tehlen without a word. 

“Okay. If your information is good, she’s free of her debt. As long as she leaves Bothuwui Proper.”

Kal starts to nod; he stops as Krtsador holds up his broken fingers. “And she puts the blaster bolt in the Togruta’s head.”

Kal feels his blood run cold. “Thought you might want her alive.”

“I did. But certain other parties are closing in on this information. One less mouth.”

Kal finally nods. “Okay. She’ll be at the Twi’lek enclave. Have Tehlen and your other gunsels there at the fourteenth hour tomorrow.”

He turns and walks out, unable to look at Tehlen.


	8. Say live and let die

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A desk cop with a tin ear. A wife with a sharp sense of right and wrong. Bail’s patience; Ahsoka’s memories.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks for my wonderful beta, the inestimable SLWalker, for this and all of the previous chapters. She’s made this whole writing thing so much easier with wonderful advice and counsel. All mistakes are still mine.

Bail Organa looks up as an admin droid shows his next appointment in. His eyes narrow as he sees Nels Somar walk smoothly in, his business suit immaculate. Bail manages to keep his expression neutral, but allows a slight look of disapproval flow over his features at the attire. 

For hundreds of years, the General of Peacekeepers, or the _Mishleh_ —the one in charge, had worn some semblance of a uniform; had been a sworn protector of the peace and rights on Alderaan. Another office, one descended from a more ancient one, had been the administrative superior and not part of the operational structure. 

Until Somar had been selected, as a political expedient by the previous Viceroy. Bail Antilles had been a strong advocate for justice and professionalism, but political pressure from other Elder Families and members of the Council of Graces had necessitated the elevation of Somar, an administrative Captain, over dozens of more qualified officers. Ones who had actually spent more than five minutes on the streets of Alderaan. 

“Viceroy,” Somar says dryly, bringing him from his reverie. Bail narrows his eyes. _The man really was gray. Not just his hair or his clothing. Colorless_ , Bail thinks. 

“General,” he replies, knowing that his use of the title irritates the officer. Once he had been in office, Somar had combined the operational and administrative jobs and had taken to calling himself ‘Director.’ A voice vote in the Graces, as well as the Assembly, pushed through by those same sniping Elder Families, had confirmed the move. _Led by one Dorith Panteer._

“We have a slight problem, Viceroy,” Somar says, seemingly unaware of the disdain from Bail.

“Oh? Just one?” Bail asks. Somar’s expression remains blank, the sarcasm; as always streaking over his head like an errant missile.

“The Imperial Navy is looking into some ISB codes that have gone missing. They’ve been traced to the Mother,” Somar says, using the term for Alderaan among her people. 

Bail’s eyes narrow. “Why is the Navy looking into this? Why not Agent Horan?”

“I wouldn’t like to speculate, but there is the possibility that this could be traced to the Royal Family. ISB might want to the let the Navy trip over itself on this one.”

“And how is this traced to the Royal Family’s doorstep?” asks another voice from the inner door. 

Somar starts and gives a deeper bow than the one he had given Bail. Bail smirks as he actually sees the expression travel to Somar’s bland features as Breha walks in, carrying Leia. 

_An expression of fear._

Sabe’, for once dressed in the robe and rainbow mantle of a Handmaiden of Alderaan, follows her, along with Gregar Typho, dressed in a civilian suit. 

Somar looks at the newcomers, then straightens at Breha’s huff of impatience. “I’ve heard some rumblings, your Majesty,” he replies. 

Breha’s dark eyes narrow as she looks at the bureaucrat. She starts to say something, but notices that Leia is hanging on every word. “I’m sure that I know who started those ‘rumblings,” she replies dryly. “Plus the Imperials have been wanting to put a more effective Moff in here. This might give them an excuse.”

“I wouldn’t presume to speculate on that, your Majesty. I could have some of my officers look into the Household,” he says smoothly.

 _You’d like that, wouldn’t you?_ Bail thinks to himself. 

Breha answers for him. “No. There are no accusations of wrongdoing against us. We will look into it,” she says firmly. 

Apparently, Somar’s tin ear doesn’t pick up on the firmness. “Do you have trained people to look into this, your Majesty?”

Breha decides not to eviscerate him. _It’s close_ , Bail observes. “My Handmaiden is trained. Well trained. Plus, I’m trying out a new Queensguard,” she says, indicating Typho.

Somar does allow an expression of contempt over his face. “He hasn’t been exactly successful at guarding Queens and Senators,” he says. 

Bail wonders if a very precise blaster bolt is about find itself squarely in the center of Somar’s forehead. From either the Handmaiden or the potential Royal Guard.

Breha saves him, at least for now. Bail sees the mischievous sparkle in Breha’s eyes. “Captain, if you could, escort General Somar to his speeder. I’m sure he is very busy with other activities.”

Both men stare at her; each probably thinking which one will kill the other first. Typho recovers first and smiles. “As you say, your Majesty,” he says warmly.

Bail can see a hint of her own warmth in Breha’s eyes. _Hmm. Guess somebody might get the job. Hopefully on more than charm_. He sees the expression change as Gregar’s eyes fall on Somar. 

A look that is vaguely reminiscent of one that he would have if he had stepped in something sticky and distasteful.

As the two vastly different guardians leave the room, Breha turns to Bail and Sabe’. She shifts Leia in her arms. “How the hell did we get here?” She closes her eyes as she sees the little girl, maybe a year old, look up at her at the phrase.

Bail sees Sabe’ hide a grin at both parents’ consternation, before growing serious. “I’m not sure. Fulcrum was looking into that type of information, but never got it. We know that Krtsador and Panteer might have some connections.”

Bail nods after a moment. “I know. But I can’t see Panteer risking his own neck in a noose to bring us down. It’s too risky, unless—,” he says. He feels his brows knit together. 

“Unless what, dear?” Breha asks. 

“Unless Panteer is already two steps ahead of us. Unless he has someone on the inside? Someone he’s bought and paid for.”

All three of them fall silent as they contemplate this. 

After several moments of silence, Bail asks the question. “Who could it be? Do you think Gregar?” he asks Sabe’.

She shakes her head immediately. “No. One, we really haven’t exposed him to much. Just Krtsador and some of his dealings,” she replies. Bail smiles at her surety. “Plus,” she continues, “he’s not ‘anointed’, yet.”

Bail and Breha nod at the term. One created by them to identify anyone who might have the knowledge of a certain unfrocked Jedi-cum-one woman intelligence network. 

The three in the galaxy who are fully anointed stand in this room.

“It could be anyone innocuous in the Household,” Bail says. he looks at Breha, then at Sabe’. “How did Fulcrum come across the information?”

“I think that it’s sometimes better that we not know that,” Breha answers for her.

“Especially you, my Queen,” Sabe’ says. 

Breha scoffs, but doesn’t argue. She takes them both in. “Find out who in our Household might be willing to betray us.”

Sabe’ bows, then turns. As she does, she touches Leia’s cheek, her knuckles eliciting a giggle from the Princess. 

+=+=+=+=+=

Hana walks into her husband’s office. She looks around, her eyes falling on his admin droid. The droid’s vocoder starts to light up; she pulls a small device from her pocket and thumbs one switch on the cylinder. The droid’s photoreceptors and the vocoder both grow dim; the slight background hum decrescendos to silence. She looks up at both corners and at one particularly creepy painting. She replaces the cylinder in her pocket, then pulls out her datapad. A pressing of a specific touchpad on the screen, pointing in each direction she had looked at, and the datapad returns to its pouch on her belt, right next to the small blaster holstered there. 

She breathes in, then out, focusing her mind on the task; a task that might not be sanctioned by her new employer. One that is only for her peace of mind, ever since her conversation with Gregar Typho. 

_No_ , she thinks. _Even longer than that_. Six months to be precise. Exactly five minutes after she had woken up from the post-coital slumber of her wedding night, her head aching from the alcohol imbibed to suppress the revulsion at what she had done, after meeting some of Shaizan’s acquaintances and colleagues.

Any one of which would sell their own parents for an extra twenty credits. She reaches into the low cut top; the standard uniform of any of those acquaintances’ trophy wives or ‘possessions.’ She brings out the small flask, one-hands the top, and raises it to her lips. She grits her teeth, then brings the top back onto the flask and replaces it between her breasts. _No. You have responsibilities, now, Lancer,_ she thinks. 

She idly wonders if her revulsion is at Fantos’s wedding guests, or the fact that she had never left the marriage, even after overhearing some of them bragging of their conquests. Conquests in the business world, as well as apparently the criminal one. Conquests that had left victims strewn around the Mid-Rim and the Core. Some of them bankrupt and ruined. Some of the fine upstanding guests had hinted that their activities had left some in a more permanent state of ruination. 

Hana shakes her head. After being kicked out of the Imperial Navy, after a distinguished career in its predecessor, she had wandered aimlessly. A chance encounter at a cocktail function she had been dragged to by a well-meaning family member in her home province of Soruna. She had noticed the tall, handsome figure standing off from the rest watching her. A warm smile and her knees had grown weak, as if she wasn’t over a quarter-century old and a veteran of dozens, if not hundreds, of dangerous combat missions. 

Hours had been spent talking, Fantos Shaizan actually listening to her, his eyes boring into her. After a two-month courtship, she had woken up to an empty bed after her wedding night with people she would’ve never been with in in a world, much less in the close proximity of the estate’s main hall with. She remembers finding her new husband at his desk, working on some deal that would add zeroes to his fortune. 

He had never sat and listened to her again. The feeling of emptiness after the loss of the only life she had known had soon returned. A gnawing hunger to find herself and to prove herself useful. 

Marriage to the _Dai-Lin_ had never even come close to filling it.

When she had delved deeper into his businesses, she had realized that she couldn’t leave him. That she might just owe it to those strewn around two regions of the galaxy to help future victims. She had never found any evidence that Fantos’s deals had resulted in death or injury; at least not directly.

The same couldn’t be said for some of his acquaintances, however. Her mind’s eye pictures a small, unloved restaurant. The hand of the owner lingering on her ass at her own wedding. She remembers his whispered given name. _I’m Skon, my dear. If you ever need some distraction, I have a nice place for it._

Gregor Typho had supplied his last name, one shared by a set of young twin brothers, Jed and Jad, and an unknown youngest sister. It was a name synonymous with crime and heartache. Her research had found that Jad, the most vicious of the brothers, was in prison on Corellia after an arrest by that world’s finance minister, who also oversees the Five Brothers’ intelligence service. The minister, who had gotten his start as a cop decades ago had been there at the invitation of a young Zeltron CorSec officer on her first big case. It was rumored that the young officer meant more to Draq’ Bel Iblis than an up-and-coming Deputy Constable that he had his eye on for his Intelligence service, or even his elite Rangers—the tip of the spear of Corellia’s external relations. 

Hana realizes that throughout all her rumination, she has already accessed her husband’s computer, digging through even his most secret files with practiced ease. Something she had practiced a great deal, once she had copied the small device in the watch-pocket of his suit pants. A device handed down from _Dai-Lin_ to _Dai-Lin_ , over centuries.

It had been relatively easy to break the keyword that had accompanied the device. 

She sees the name that she had been given, by the calm Chief Handmaiden. Her eyes widen at the amount of money that had passed through Shaizan Financial.; money that had come from a world in the Core. A world that now employed an ex-Naboo Captain of the Guard. She takes a deep breath, then copies the material. She sees another file attached to the names. An executable file. Her eyes narrow at the description.

Another ten minutes, she is in the bright, airy sunroom. She feels her husband’s warm hands on her bare shoulders. As she feels his lips on her neck, she is conscious of the small datachip resting between her breasts, where the flask of brandy had been. 

A data packet that could spell danger for at least two worlds.

+=+=+=+=+=

Ahsoka waits as her secured comm connects. She idly wonders if Bail will take her call; if he is still upset with her. 

His face rises above the holocomm, as the encryption syncs. “Fulcrum,” he says quietly. 

“Senator, I have information of a credible threat to Alderaan,” she says. 

He raises his right eyebrow at her statement. “What kind of threat?” he asks directly.

“I’m not sure. I just know that a source has told me that Krtsador has several deals in the air. One of them affects your world,” she finishes. Her eyes narrow as she watches Bail process this. 

“I thought that I was clear on this, Fulcrum,” he says, his voice taking on an edge. “You were to stay away from anything having to do with him.”

“No. You said I shouldn’t seek revenge or attack him. To me, that means that I can still do my job, which is to find information and build a network. Information that may someday help restore the Republic,” she says with her own directness. 

Organa raises his thumb and forefinger, bringing it to the bridge of his nose. “Don’t split hairs with me, please, Ahsoka,” he says quietly. “We’re already familiar with the possible threat to Alderaan. One, that I might add, might have to do with that original information that you were trying to get from Krtsador. The ISB may have traced it here.”

Ahsoka’s blood runs cold at his words. She looks down, unable to speak for a moment. Bail waits patiently. 

“I was sure that I gave nothing up about Alderaan. There’s been no connection with the Mother,” she says. 

Bail listens quietly. She forges ahead.“I’m not even sure that this data exists, Senator.”

“What makes you think that, Fulcrum?” he asks. 

She takes a deep breath. “I’ve only seen a small file. It’s all that Krtsador allowed me to see.” She smiles briefly. “I only let him see a bit of my credits, too,” she says with a dry inflection. “The file was an executable one. I managed to get into it, probably deeper than he wanted to. It was an indicator file; that showed the larger file was present somewhere near. It’s why I backed off a tiny bit.” She looks down. “That and the fact that he was trying to, uh, use his charm on me.”

She sees a bit of anger from him, quickly hidden. For a moment she wonders if that is what the anger of a father looks like. “Do you think it was because you wouldn’t fall into bed with him that he got you thrown in that jail? Or because you got too close to his scam?”

“I don’t honestly know, sir,” she says finally. She looks up. “If you can trust me, I can look into it here.” She looks away, refusing to meet his eyes. “I do have some contacts that might be able figure out what his game is.”

Bail looks at her for another long moment. She feels her heart beating in her chest under that gaze. He gives a quick nod. “No engagement. Let your contacts do the engaging. You very nearly got your cover blown. Even if there is a threat to us, your identity is sacrosanct. We’ve got some good people looking into the threat here, too.”

As she clicks off, she brings her hands up, looking at them, her middle and ring fingers crossed, in a symbol taught to her by Barriss Offee from her world. Symbols that were revered as protections against the consequences of small lies. Her heart twists as she thinks of Barriss; of the ultimate betrayal.

Her mind remembers soft yellow-green skin under her lips, just after that lesson. She slumps as yet another of her dead—or presumed dead—intrudes into her plans and thoughts. 

Her comm beeps with a text. She covers her eyes with the heels of her hands, then rises to walk out of the attic.


	9. What did it matter to ya?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Memories of how she got into this mess. Dancing with blasters. A warrior falls. A protector re-emerges from her shell. Twelve percent of a plan. The Land of Song speaks its mind.

Krtsador looked up from the datapad and painted a careful smile on his face as the young woman was shown into his audience chamber. “Ahh, my mystery woman. The one who refuses to give me the gift of her name. One that no doubt is as beautiful as she is, if I remember the bits of your musical language—,” he started. He stopped as he saw the anger in her powerful blue eyes. 

“Stow it, Krtsador. You don’t get to try to charm me into your bed after you’ve screwed me in another way,” the Togruta said.

Krtsador managed to keep his smile even. _She wasn’t supposed to find that out so soon_ , he thought with a tiny bit of fear. “Whatever do you mean, my dear?” he deflected.

The young woman chose to allow her long black coat to fall open at that instant. His eyes widened as he saw the butts of the Clone War-era blasters under her arms. She crossed her arms over her chest—he tried to avert his gaze from that area as her eyes narrowed even further. The arms of the coat had ridden up slightly, showing him a bit of orange skin, decorated with white stripes on her forearms. He concentrated his gaze on that skin, no longer thinking about what the rest of her clothing hid. His mind had unwittingly traveled to the idea of those arms, still with a hint of their adolescent leanness, but beginning to fill out with more blatant strength, wrapped around his back. He started to rise, but stopped at the expression that showed at his look. 

A smile with absolutely no warmth and more than just a little of her pointed incisors; teeth that appeared to be even sharper than his own. He searched his memory for a half-remembered legend of her people. He closed his eyes as he suddenly saw those arms around his neck. A half-second before she inserted those incisors into his major artery, injecting the paralyzing poison into his body, leaving him at her mercy. 

He realized that she was speaking. “…it’s a good thing that I do my drinking in other places than I prefer,” she said. “It’s amazing what you can learn in some of the seedier shitholes on your world.” A prudish, almost parental part of him gasped at her use of the curse word, something he fought to remember if he’d ever heard from the young woman.

He managed to focus on the moment at hand as she took several steps towards his couch. He held his paws up in what he hoped was a placating gesture. “It’s nothing personal, my dear. A better offer came along.”

She stopped—apparently realizing that several of his guards—the ones that seem to be related to him, have moved towards her, their hands on various instruments of destruction. She didn’t seem to be too alarmed at the prospect. 

“So what about the downpayment?” she asked. “I want it back.” 

“Deposits are non-refundable, my dear,” Krtsador said smoothly. She started towards him again, the look on her face growing darker with each step.

One of his bolder protectors, or at least one of the less intelligent ones, laid his hand on her shoulder. She looked down at it with an expression that she would reserve for an insect. A quick, blurred move and the guard—his doltish sisters’ pup—was resting against the far wall. The offending arm appeared to be positioned at an angle not normal for Bothans, at the shoulder. Krtsador felt his anger spike as he saw the broken piece of statuary lying under his nephew. He thought of his beautiful artwork, most of which he couldn’t tell any of the history of; only the cost, burning or broken in the melee that would follow. He gestured towards the guards.

“Alright. Even though it’s against my policy, I’ll need to find the credits in my accounts.” He tossed a card with an address on it. She caught it deftly. “Go there. Have some drinks on the house. One of my staff will meet you with the credits.” He smiled. “Perhaps you would have dinner with me, to show that there are no hard feelings.”

She didn’t reply, merely began backing out of the chamber, one hand on a blaster. 

When she had gone, he had turned to the Ithorian who had walked up next to him. “Go. Make sure that the Imperials are informed of a disturbance. She’ll be careful with her drinking in that establishment. Help her along.” The Ithorian nodded, hefting a blowgun that appears to be adapted for his gill-slits. 

Krtsador watched as his plan comes to fruition. He shook his head at someone calling his name.

His eyes focus on the Bothan in front of him; realizes that he is sitting in his plainer office, in the present. 

Teg Locan, his principal business rival, stands in front of the desk. “So where the hell is the rest of the information, Krtsador?” he asks, an edge to his voice. Krtsador looks at Locan’s adopted son, standing next to him. The tall, muscular Mirialan stares at him with violet eyes, two downward pointing spearpoints tattooed under those eyes. 

“Never you mind, Teg,” he says smoothly. “It’s all coming to plan. I just need to take care of a slight hindrance; then you’ll get the information promised.”

“I’d better,” Locan says. “My client is not very amused, seeing that her neck might be on the line. She’s related to some very dangerous people. Ones that are kind of peevish when they don’t get what they want. She may look like a mere slip of a girl, but she will cut your tongue out without breaking a sweat.”

 _That could describe another young woman_ , Krtsador thinks. “Don’t worry, Locan,” he says sharply. “As soon as another so-called dangerous young woman is lying where you stand with a hole in her head, we’ll be square.”

As the rival and his son walk out—the older of which had persuaded him to double-cross the young Togruta and sell the information that she had sought out from under her—he can only hope that Skirata would make good on his part of the deal. 

+=+=+=+=+=

The Force screams a warning as Ahsoka takes a sip of her water. She starts to shift back from the table in the Scarduan social enclave that the card from Krtsador had sent her to. She had brought her own water bottle; fortunately the enclave had a BYOB section that didn’t earn her a second glance from the staff and clientele.

As she shifts, she feels a sting on the side of her neck. She reaches up, feels nothing on her skin. As she does, her world flips. She feels herself sliding from the barstool. Through the fog, she manages to glimpse an Ithorian standing at the entrance. The Ithorian eyes her for a moment, before turning to four fleet troopers who have entered through another door. 

One hand grasps a blaster, the other reaches towards the collar of her shirt. She touches a tiny object—an object that when broken in her mouth, would explode her heart in only a few seconds of pain. 

Her hand doesn’t quite reach the pill. Oddly, as she falls down a deep chasm, she can be grateful that she had left her still-unfinished lightsabers hidden near Selda’s room.

The Force continues to shriek in her mind as she comes back to the present. The dingy streets of this part of the Twi’lek section are suddenly filled with armed Bothans, all intent on leaving her body filled with cauterized holes on the streets. She is finally able to shove the memories of how she had gotten herself in this predicament back to the recesses of her mind; memories as vivid as her perceptions now, rather than with the feel of the distant past. 

_Of course, the Force seems to be telling me how I was and am in deep shit_ , she thinks, as she visualizes two of the thugs and their blasters in the flood of the Force. Their compatriots are perplexed as the blasters suddenly shift; sending bolts into each other. _Not as perplexed as they are._

Another four thugs swarm her, all armed with up-close-and-personal types of melee weapons. Ahsoka manages to duck her montrals below the wild swing of a vibroaxe. 

Somehow, a perverse wisp of pride enters her consciousness. _Would’ve been easier to duck if I hadn’t grown_ , she thinks. Oddly, she hears Anakin’s dry voice in her mind, a memory rather than in the here and now. _Might not grow anymore Snips, if you don’t focus_ , the memory says. Ahsoka pushes the voice out of her mind; what she has done with all of the voices of those she can no longer feel in the Force. 

For an instant, she thinks about the two lightsabers that rest under her arms in concealed pockets of her long coat. Weapons that would’ve ended this dance fairly quickly, but would’ve started a more prolonged one. One involving the entire Imperial garrison as they looked for another fugitive Jedi.

She concentrates on using the less visible manifestations of her gift to take care of these annoyances. Anyone observing, anyone that knows the quality of thugs that Fey’lan Krtsador employs, would take their apparent clumsiness and ineptitude as standard operating procedure, as another half-dozen suddenly find themselves unconscious or clutching burned or broken limbs. Or worse, depending on how hard they had tried to kill her. 

Two evenly spaced blaster bolts on either side of her lekku signal that some skill has entered the fight. She glimpses a slim figure in _beskar’gam_ ; armor that is familiar in its cut and design, but with the blue of reliability, rather than the gray of mourning of that quasi-familiar design. 

She nods almost imperceptibly to herself as her hand inches towards the holstered blaster under her left arm. 

+=+=+=+=+=

Keh watches the street battle from his high vantage point. He allows his eyes to narrow at the Mandalorian troublemaker; the one who had made no secret of her disdain for the rest of Lord Fey’lan’s protectors. The one who, if the whispers had been correct, had once been a Mandalorian Protector in training. The young woman who would soon outlive her usefulness to Lord Fey’lan, if Khe had any say in the matter. Her and her troublesome uncle, Skirata. 

Keh feels his gill slits tighten under the electronic voicebox placed over them. He hefts the long slugthrower, wondering if he could solve two of his lord’s problems with only the cost of a couple of two-credit slugs. He could make the shot in the Mando’s throat, under her helmet, then place another between the white diamond shapes in the Togruta’s forehead, stilling both smirks forever.

 _No. My lord has a plan. Let the Mando kill the Togruta. I can dispose of both Mandos, the uncle and niece together._

Keh freezes his thoughts as he sees the Togruta, barely recognizable under the hood and with the scarf over her face, finally draw a weapon. He remains expressionless as the blaster seems to fly into her hand. He discounts what he has seen as he realizes that the Togruta will ruin the plans of her own demise. Without hesitation, he brings the rifle to his shoulder, sights, and fires. 

A burst of blaster fire around him surprises him and throws off his aim. Keh manages to draw his own blaster with his free hand, returning fire in the blind. He keeps the rifle up to his shoulder with his other hand, just as the Togruta drops to her knees as she fires. As he turns to leave, he sees her blaster bolt strike the faceplate of the Mando’s helmet. Somehow, the bolt appears to have struck right on the visor, a tiny place of vulnerability. The Mando drops and is still in the small circle of his rifle macroscope. The Togruta is on her knees, the hand with the blaster clutching her left side. 

Through the sudden silence of the frozen tableau, he hears a primal cry of rage. He sees a gray shape charging towards the two, his blaster firing at the Togruta. She manages to jump to her feet and dart away. 

The renewed blaster fire from behind him sends him to do some fleeing of his own. The last thing he sees as he moves away from his attacker is Kal Skirata kneeling next to the body of his niece. He reaches down and brings her to his chest. 

She doesn’t move. Even as her uncle rocks her gently.

+=+=+=+=+=

Nola Vorserrie walks out into the bright sunlight of the veranda. The sun warms her face for the first time in months. She flexes her shoulders, then drops down into a squat. As she rises again, a sheepish grin plays over her features. _Unused muscles_ , she thinks. 

She takes a deep breath, allowing the clear mountain air to fill her lungs; the slight pain in her chest from the half-kilometer run she had managed dissipates quickly. _Maybe I’ll try a swim instead tomorrow_ , she thinks. _The pool is heated._

As if on cue, she shivers slightly in the higher elevation. She looks out over the untrammeled beauty of the city; not unlike Theed, the capital of her world. One that she had visited on occasion with school trips; or trips to her father’s construction business headquarters, until she had turned twelve. Her father and mother had made sure that she and her brother and sister had been exposed to all that Naboo had offered, but had maintained their home in the small industrial town of her father’s birth.

A chance encounter with her mother’s distant cousin, a former Queen of Naboo and current Senator, had changed her life. Padme’ Naberrie had listened to her childish dreams of seeing the galaxy; of following in her example of service, with a warm, rather than a condescending smile. Two years later, at the completion of her middle levels of school, a nomination had arrived, in the hands of a young woman in a scarlet hooded robe. A nomination to enter a new world; to enter selection training as a Handmaiden of Naboo.

She closes her eyes, as the grief, the loss, threatens to swell again in her chest. She places her hands over her eyes, the faces of her dead playing in her mind. She manages to fight the march of those faces; a march ending in the handsome, warm features of a Royal Guard sub-captain. The last face that she had seen before waking up on Alderaan. 

Nola grits her teeth, cursing under her breath. Her hands continue through her shower-damp hair, brushing it away from her forehead. It had been years since her hair had been this long, she thinks idly, fighting for balance against the dark thoughts. Since before she had left for Selection. She squints against the bright light of the sun.

“Your face’ll freeze like that,” comes a dry voice behind her.

She spins, her eyes falling on a tall woman, a few years older than she is. She stands to her own full height and fixes a sharp look on the interloper—an interloper escorted by a palace guard. Nola grits her teeth as she sees the woman’s uniform. Flashes of laserfire and a crimson blade cuts through Nola’s consciousness. The flashes are quickly suppressed, but burble just below the surface. Only clonetrooper armor; faded blue paint still visible on the white, had been present at the slaughter. No uniformed officers had been present. A huge, indistinct dark figure, its armor drawing in all of the light around it as it moved down the line of kneeling, bound—. She shakes her head. Her eyes rise up to the woman’s dark features.

Features split by a warm, cheeky grin—an expression that lights up her entire face; softens it.

“Yeah?” she replies. “At least it won’t be goofy like yours.” Almost as soon as the words are out of her mouth, she winces at the schoolyard rejoinder.

The officer’s expression doesn’t waver, except to morph into a smirk. “You’re really out of practice at this, aren’t you?” she asks, just as Nola’s inner voice says the exact same thing. Her eyes widen as she realizes what ‘this’ might be.

The Imperial nods at the guard, then walks over to stand next to Nola. Her eyes lock on Nola’s, the expression still exuding warmth. She holds out her hand. After an instant, Nola grasps it, the warm touch lingering on her skin. Nola rolls her eyes at that errant thought. 

“Rae Sloane, Queen of Goofy,” the woman says. 

Nola manages to just limit her name to her given name, even though Handmaiden identities were never recorded. Bail’s contacts had ensured that the Imperials had no record of her as a fugitive from Imperial justice; that ‘Nole’, the Chief Handmaiden, had died with the others; her body had just never been recovered. Believable, seeing the amount of blasterfire and antipersonnel explosives the troopers had used in the Palace.

“Never been flirted with by an Imperial,” she manages to say. She looks down. “Yeah, you’re right. I’m a little out of practice.”

Her eyes must have betrayed a hint of something, as Sloane’s look softens. Nola manages to suppress the feelings. _Don’t show weakness, don’t show weakness. She’s another Imperial._

“So,” she says, deliberately looking around Rae’s straight back. “Where’s the stick?” She makes sure that Sloane sees her eyes linger on the gaberwool covered ass.

Rae—idly, Nola wonders when she had started, in the two minutes of knowing her; had started thinking of her by her first name—looks uncertain at the return salvo, of words and glances. “Stick?” she asks. 

“The stick that all Imperial officers seem to have shoved up their asses,” Nola finishes. She feels only a bit of triumph at the flash in Sloane’s dark eyes, quickly replaced by the humor.

“Oh, it’s on the bulkhead in my quarters. I didn’t figure that I needed it to deal with light work such as yourself. For a visit to a Queen’s Palace.” She looks away for a moment. “Even on an official inquiry.”

At that instant, long-dormant memories flow to the forefront of Nola’s brain. Memories of lessons learned; of lessons practiced on her fellow Handmaidens, all with a purpose—to gain advantage. Practice designed to foster lessons that seek out weaknesses; weaknesses in anyone who would threaten those that Nola had sworn to protect. She closes her finger on the palm of her strong hand, feeling the remnants of the scar. 

A reminder of the blood-oath she had taken; that she had sworn to protect those in her charge.

As she continues to laugh and smile with the officer— _Rae_ , she forces herself to think—she realizes that the skills have come back to the surface; flirting, probing for any weakness, to defend her principal. Warmth flows throughout her body, even as her mind unconsciously uses the term—a technical term for those a bodyguard protects.

Life flows through her. _Purpose._

She realizes that the officer, while untrained, may be using some of those same skills on her, as the naval officer’s knuckles caress the skin of her arm for an instant. Sloane might be probing, just as she is, for any weakness that could be useful in her ‘inquiry.’

As she continues with the dance, Nola Vorserrie knows her purpose. But, an errant thought strays into her mind.

 _Who the hell am I protecting_? she wonders.

+=+=+=+=+=

Breha tunes out the other three voices as she tries to process all of the information that has flowed to them about the entire caper. 

“…our contact in the financial world tells us that there’s a code that indicates when the ISB information is near, even before it goes onto a computer. That might give us an edge to get find it before it infects any of our computers,” Gregar Typho says. “We just have to figure out how to get her here.”

Breha turns and looks at Bail. “Maybe we can use it our advantage, as well. Especially if we can find the information in someone else’s possession,” he says. 

Breha feels her gut twist at the words from her husband—the loving compassionate man that she had fallen for, maybe even before their marriage was arranged. Words that might send someone, even someone as odious as the unspoken subject of this conversation, to an ignominious death.

“We just have to figure out how to get it close to him. I’m pretty sure that Dorith’s paranoia would keep it pretty close to his person, or at least where he could access it,”Sabe’ says. 

Breha speaks without turning from the window overlooking the sunny veranda. “So how do we get it here, then how do we get it near the Gigolo?” She hears a giggle at the nickname that her family had given Dorith Panteer, many years ago; when he had first become an issue.

She can feel Bail’s smile, even without turning. “The afternoon levee’ of the Graces. Panteer’s supposed to be hosting it at the Palace this quarter. He’s already in the host’s apartments.”

“Don’t suppose we could bug them, could we?” Gregar asks, a hopeful tone in his voice. He winces as Sabe’ punches his arm. “What?”

“It can’t be done. A Grace’s levee’ is sacrosanct ever since the disagreements over succession weren’t settled with parties,” Bail replies dryly.

 _Almost like when I succeeded Mazi_ , Breha thinks. 

“Then we’re going to have to figure out how to get him distracted long enough to use the doo-dad,” Sabe’ says, the slang term sounding out of place from her cultured mix of Core and mid-Rim accent.

“First we have to get the doo-dad here,” Bail says. He snaps his fingers, focusing on Typho. “Doesn’t your contact work for the Queen, now, in addition to her marriage?”

“Yes, Senator,” Gregar replies. 

Bail nods. Breha turns to Sabe’. “Invite them to the levee’. They should be able to get here in time. That way, Gregar can ensure that he gets the thing from her.”

Sabe’ nods and picks up her datapad. Gregar bows to them both. “I’ll give her a heads up,” he says as he turns to leave. 

Breha stares down at the veranda. She feels a warmth as she sees Nola Vorserrie standing on the veranda, her face upturned towards the sunlight, with a smile almost as warm as the sunlight on her face. Something that Breha hadn’t seen since she had been brought to Alderaan.

The young woman actually laughs; it is then that Breha realizes that Nola isn’t alone in the sun. Her teeth clinch as she sees another young woman, slightly older, but not quite as tall, talking to Nola. A young woman clad in a gray-green uniform. Breha starts to say something, but stops as she feels Bail’s hand on her arm. She gestures at both of the young women. Both of them are laughing; the Imperial’s dark brown face light as she finishes whatever it is that she has said. 

Nola’s face shifts to a look that Neyutnee has described, when both sat by her bedside. A look given just before a biting retort. She hasn’t lost it as the Imperial rolls her eyes and gives her a slight punch on her bare arm.

 _Just two young women laughing and joking_ , Breha thinks. She sobers as she realizes; that she hopes that Nola will realize what the other young woman is; what she represents. 

“She knows, Bre. She knows that this young woman represents the same people who slaughtered her Queen and her Handmaidens.” Even as he says it, she sees a slight change come over Nola’s face, just for an instant.

“Who is she, Bail?”

“She’s the Imperial naval officer that’s turning over sting-nests with our local ISB. She may be pushing Horan a bit.”

“Isn’t that bad?” Breha asks. 

“I don’t know,” Bail replies. “But she actually seems interested in the truth, rather than putting someone up against the wall. I’m not too sure that Horan might not be involved in this whole thing.”

Both turn their heads back to Nola. Breha sees Bail’s eyes widen, an instant before hers do. They look at one another, then back at Nola, now listening intently to something the naval officer says. 

They both look at her in that particular light, at the close resemblance to another young woman. A young woman now exiled from her own family. A family including the beloved younger sister watching and looking at her husband, her eyes questioning.

“She’s close, love,” he says. “More than a bit taller; not as round of a face, but definitely close.” He looks away, a pained look on his handsome face. 

“I think we’ve found our distraction, Bail,” she says firmly, shoving the fear for the young woman away. “She’s definitely Dorith’s type. I just hope that she knows what we don’t expect her to do for this information.”

“She does, your Majesty, Senator,” comes a voice from behind them. Sabe’ walks up besides them, looking fondly, but analytically at Nola. “She’s a Handmaiden of Naboo. She can play any part.” She points slightly. “Just like she’s been doing with that young officer.”

Breha sees her eyes tear slightly, before she shakes them away. “She’s alive, my Queen,” she whispers. “She’ll get whatever information you need from either Panteer or that Lieutenant. She may not have a Queen anymore, but she’ll still fulfill her oath.”

Sabe’ turns away. “I think that she might need an invitation as a royal guest to the levee’.” She grins. “And a plus one. One that it might be good to have her close, to keep an eye on her.”

+=+=+=+=+=

Gallatin walks into the office, just as Krtsador laughs at something that his rival’s adopted son has said. Both Krtsador and the Mirialan turn and fall silent as he walks in. He activates his people’s gift, the one that other races usually speak of with wistful looks. He focuses it on Locan’s son, calling up a memory of the Mirialan lying under him as Gallatin’s mouth had played over him. Gallatin manages to suppress his feeling of triumph as he sees Locanson adjust himself slightly, suddenly wondering why his tailored trousers are that much more tailored. He allows his own memory of the encounter; his own pleasure, to fade as he reinforces a certain point to the Mirialan.

He walks over and takes his customary place at Krtsador’s side. As usual, he sees the play of emotions over the Bothan’s face whenever he looks at Gallatin. _Lust, combined with distaste, with a healthy overlay of distrust_ , Gallatin thinks. _Just the way that I like it._

Gallatin waits patiently as Krtsador shakes hands with the Mirialan. As Locanson exits, Gallatin narrows his eyes. Krtsador returns his look without expression. “Just a little something I’m working on,” he says. 

Gallatin smiles. “It’s when you keep things from me, Boss, that things go ass-backwards,” he says calmly. He sees the thrust hit home, as Krtsador’s dark eyes flash.

“You might want to hold your tongue, Zeltron,” he says darkly. “That is, if you want to use it for any of your little pleasures. I don’t think you’d be too valuable if I returned you to that brothel you said you’d been in without it.”

Gallatin merely smiles. He glances at his comm. “You might want to think about what you would be without me, Boss,” he says quietly.

The door to the office bursts open. Keh, the Ithorian gunsel with aspirations for Gallatin’s job, slides in. He bows to Krtsador and speaks, the vocoder over his gill-slits giving his voice its usual odd inflection. “The attack on the Togruta has failed. She killed the Mando girl,” he says.

At that moment, Gallatin feels the vibration of his comm. He suppresses his smile, even though Krtsador is focused on Keh. 

“What about the others of my guards?” Krtsador asks. 

“They’re either dead or run off,” Keh replies. “I managed to hit the Togruta, but someone attacked me from behind. She was bleeding a lot when she ran off.”

Gallatin speaks up, lifting his comm theatrically. “Skirata has been seen near here. He’s probably not going to be too pleased with you.” He stares at the Bothan. “Neither is a wounded huntress.”

Krtsador slumps in his chair. He looks around the office, at the more subdued works of art—his possessions. _Knockoffs_ , comes to Gallatin’s mind unbidden. Gallatin jerks his head at Keh, who hesitates, until he see Gallatin’s skin flush. The darkening of Gallatin’s eyes with the modula, probably helps speed the thug away, in spite of his coveting of Gallatin’s job. 

“You might want to think about the contingency plan,” he says. Krtsador looks up at him, takes a deep breath. After a long moment, he nods. He touches his fingers to a panel in his desk in a distinct pattern. The panel springs open. Krtsador brings out a datapad. 

As he exits the office, the datapad secured in a deep pocket, Gallatin smiles. He pulls out a holocom, waits for it to activate. 

A Zeltron woman, about two decades older than him, waits patiently. “I’ve got it. Tell your contacts to have their slicer ready, my Chalice. Even with their skill, it may take a long time to get the true information decrypted.”

The woman smiles at him, her permanently black eyes warm. Alyysina Faygan, charged with the protection of their world, nods. “I will. Get yourself out of there.”

“I’ve one more duty to discharge to ones who aided us.” He feels his features soften. “At least one of them, as I understand it, helps fight for the light.”

Alyys smiles. “Go. Do your best. I’ll see you when you get back to the Land,” she says, before ending the call. 

Gallatin can only think of how he will be able to use his true name again, even in his own thoughts, on his own world. The Land of Song. 

The _You-kah Torin_ , in the language of his birth.


	10. When you got a job to do you got to do it well

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Preparation for some; escapes for others.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thanks to SL Walker for beta-reading, encouragement, and plot thread wrangler when they go off in too many directions.

Breha looks at Bail, then takes a deep breath. He smiles encouragingly, then places his hand on the doorknob. He exits to the veranda, then holding the door open, dips his head in respect. She returns his smile; the ones that they reserve for each other when about to do something official; something that might be difficult, but accomplished together—as always.

Both young women’s laughter fades as she and Bail walk out. Nola straightens, turns, and bows. The Imperial officer moves her hand to her service cap, straightening it on the dark waves; waves that except for a tiny bit of more raven, are similar to Nola’s. She ends the move with a smart salute.

“Lieutenant Sloane, I gather you’re here to see me about an escaped prisoner?” Bail asks pleasantly.

Breha watches as Rae narrows her eyes, then smiles slightly. “Yes, your Highness,” she replies. “I don’t want to take too much of your time. I’m running into an impasse.”

Bail’s smile grows tight. “Really, Lieutenant? I’ve heard that you seem to have my PPS General in a bit of a huff.”

If she is surprised by his knowledge, Sloane doesn’t show it. She manages to lift the right side of her mouth in a slight smile. “Perhaps, Viceroy, I just want to find out who left an Imperial detention facility in ruins, plus made it where a detachment of Imperial fleet troopers might face terminal justice because we can’t explain what happened.”

Breha sees Bail’s eyes widen at the words—words that sound suspiciously like compassion. A compassion not usually found these days in naval officers. She moves close to Sloane, touches her arm gently. Sloane starts for a half-second, but allows the touch. “Lieutenant, perhaps my Viceroy can discuss this with you for a while in a more suitable location.” She smiles fondly at Nola, who is watching the interplay with a curious expression. “I have a few things to discuss with our Nola here,” she says as Nola looks down, “namely that she hasn’t responded to my invitation to attend our afternoon levee’ tomorrow as a guest of the Sovereign.” Breha sees Sloane smirk, covering the expression with her left hand.

Nola’s dark eyes flash fire at first Sloane, then at the Queen. She adds one in Bail’s direction for good measure. Breha stifles her laugh at his expression. He covers his expression by dropping his eyelid in a wink—one that only she can see.

Nola breathes in and out, once, twice, three times. After a moment, she dips her head in Breha’s direction. “I am yours to command, your Majesty,” she says, a tiny bit of warmth in her voice. Warmth to match the slight red tint of her skin.

As Bail and Lieutenant Sloane start to leave, Breha stops her. “I hate that we’re interrupting what looked like an enjoyable conversation, especially for Nola, who has needed engagement from someone other than the old folks in the Palace.” She ignores Nola’s eyeroll. Breha snaps her fingers. “We could kill two rock-vultures with one sling. Why don’t you attend the levee’ tomorrow, Lieutenant?”

It is Nola’s turn to hide a smirk at Sloane’s poleaxed expression. “I—,” she starts. She closes her mouth. “I’m not sure that I would have permission to attend a party, your Majesty,” she stammers.

“Nonsense. Imperial officers should attend functions on the worlds of the Empire. I’ll have a defense attache’ contact your XO, Commander Enolo. She’s from Alderaan; I know her mother—she’s one of my best teachers.” She raises her eyebrow. “Surely you have walking out or mess dress, Lieutenant? I’m sure that you will look very dashing.” She looks over at Nola. “I’ve already got something picked out for Nola to wear.”

Sloane can only nod, mumbling something officer-like and appropriate. Breha takes her hand in hers. “It’ll be good to have some young people at this thing. I hope to hear your laughter there.”

She smiles with satisfaction as Bail escorts Lieutenant Sloane out. Nola stares at her with narrowed eyes and crossed arms. Breha waits for the dig; the sarcastic riposte that Neyutnee had warned her about. Her rank would provide no defense; only a more respectful tone.

“I’m sorry, your Majesty. I don’t remember matchmaking as one of the major duties of the Mother-Sovereign,” Nola says, her tone as dry as any desert.

 _There it is. She must be still recovering_ , Breha thinks. _That wasn’t so bad._

“Do you actually find time to rule, or do you spend all of your time on the Candlewick Throne plotting matches?” Nola finishes.

_Getting there, my dear._

“Well, No-no, I thought that you might need all of the help that you could get, seeing how rusty your flirting skills were,” Breha says without missing a beat. She notices that Nola smiles at the use of her nickname; a nickname provided by two former Queens of Naboo—a nickname based upon what might be their Handmaiden’s favorite word.

“Handmaidens are supposed to practice on their Queens, your Majesty. Since you weren’t around, I’d thought I’d settle. Of course, it was nice to flirt with someone who didn’t just come up to my waist,” she finishes, looking down at the said Queen.

Breha manages to keep from giggling. “Not everyone can be a giantess like you, my girl. If you like, I can provide testimony as to my skills in this area—not only from that boloball player that just left with your not-quite-conquest. Be warned, though. You might strain something if I turned it up a bit.” Their shared laughter rises in the air as Nola lifts her hands and reaches out to the Queen. Both women clasp hands and look at one another for several moments.

“Thank you, your Majesty,” Nola whispers. “For everything.”

Breha feels her eyes sting, but fights the tears away. She feels her face grow serious. “I’ll only ask this once, Nola. I know you’ve probably heard it enough. How do you feel?”

For an instant, she has to look away from the expression of raw gratitude from Nola.

She nods. “I’m fine, your Majesty. Really, I am. I’m out of shape; could barely run a few meters without getting winded and sore this morning. I’m also ready to do something.” She grins ruefully. “Don’t know what the hell that might be, but I’m ready to do it.”

Breha takes a deep breath. “I might have an idea about that, Nola,” she says. “Just remember one thing. ‘No’ is always an acceptable answer.”

She sees Nola’s eyes stare into hers. The eyes are resolute, with a glimmer of interest shining in them. “I thought that you might. What can I do?” she asks in a clear voice.

+=+=+=+=+=

Gallatin watches as Kal Skirata stares up at two separate bacta tanks, his eyes calm. Gallatin pulls his own eyes to the medical fluid. He takes a deep breath, then smiles slightly. Two very different young women float in the healing substance, their eyes closed. He can tell from the eye movements under their lids that they both have reached dream-state. He wonders what or who visits their sleep, now that they’ve passed into that realm after the most strenuous of the healing process.

He sees Skirata’s eyes now locked on his niece, Tehlen. Gallatin’s stomach twists at the large bruise on the right side of her face, a face that is calm in its dreams. “How is she? It didn’t exactly go as plan, getting her to ‘die’,” he says.

Kal grins. “Nothing ever does. She’ll be okay according to your med-machine. That damned sniper threw off the other’s aim. She was supposed to aim for the throat and the extra armor. Good thing I had Tay put on that extra hood and mask under the helmet. The _beskar_ -infused one. She did, but she was bitching about the heat every second.”

His grin fades a tiny bit. “I had a devil of a time convincing her that she had to die, in order to get her out from under Krtsador’s thumb. He’s the type of scumbag who would’ve kept finding someway to add on to her term. She finally agreed with me and took the vitals suppressor.” He looks back up at Tehlen. “I’m going to pay for the fact that we had to leave her Protector’s armor and her blasters, to make it look good.” He looks away. “She was proud of being a Mandalorian Protector.”

Gallatin nods. “I know. But there will be another life for her.”

“Yeah. A friend of mine, _well, maybe just an acquaintance_ , might find a place for her among his Wild Jaig-hawks. At least for awhile.” His face grows pensive, then brighter. “I even have a newly minted master forger to help her with new _beskar’gam_. Something in purple, I think. For luck.” The grin grows wider. “Might even spring for a couple of hand-made WESTAR-34s instead of the factory 35s, this time.”

Gallatin feels a smirk flow to his features. He looks around.

“What, dumbass?” Skirata says.

“I’m checking to see if the anti-Omri is freezing over. Kal Skirata coming off of credits voluntarily?” Gallatin finishes, a hint of laughter in his voice. He is able to keep from wincing at Skirata’s punch to the chest. A punch delivered with a wide grin.

“So,” he starts. “We made sure they went under anesthesia separately before they were dipped. Both of their identities will remain tight, even from each other. We’ll do the same when we bring them out.”

Kal nods. A wistful look flows over his craggy features. “Thanks,” he says. “I wish they could meet, though. I think they would like each other. Both powerful young women, with such a sense of right and wrong in the universe.” Gallatin sees his struggle. “Still got a lot of growing to do, though.”

Gallatin shifts his vision over to the other young woman, the one who remains anonymous, even to Gallatin. He remembers another of her species; another with her suspected gifts from over ten years before. What he had seen of this young woman had made him wonder if she would ever grow into the serene warrior of his youthful memory. He shakes his head at the memory of another. _Another traitor to the Empire_ , as the news feeds called them.

“What about her?” he asks Kal.

Kal follows his gaze, pulling his own away from his niece. “I don’t know. I don’t really care.” He softens at Gallatin’s look. “No, that’s not right. I care about her. I just don’t care too much about her cause.” A pained look crosses his face. “I’ve fought my war,” he whispers. “We lost.”

Gallatin is silent for a moment as he stares at the young woman. His eyes fall to the healing wound on her left side, as he watches the skin and muscles knit together. He knows that the concealed ribs, at least three of them, are having to knit as well. The young woman jerks in the straps of the tank. A look similar to Skirata’s crosses her face. A look of loss and pain; of grief.

“I think she might not be as tough as she thinks she is,” Kal says, as if reading Gallatin’s mind. “Lot of pain behind that goddamned Smirk.”

“She’s so young. Even younger than Tehlen,” Gallatin says.

Kal’s expression grows dark. “Yeah. I don’t see her getting much older, with those certain gifts. The Empire will slaughter her if they catch her.”

Gallatin smiles. “You might be surprised, _Kalbuir_.” He reaches into his pocket. Kal’s eyes track the dangling datachip. “This is something that might make it easier.” He drops it into the Mandalorian’s hand, closes the fingers over it.

“What is it?” Kal asks.

“It’s a way to help her secure her comms even more. It’s what masked the ISB information I got from Krtsador’s data. A slight adjustment and it will mask her comms. They’re already good, this will make them that much more secure.”

Skirata nods. “So what about the ISB data? What about the rest of his data?”

Gallatin grins. “You let me worry about that. I think he might be taking a vacation from information brokering. The virus I uploaded may take him years to access it again. His business won’t be helped much by the fact that I gave a heads-up to the local ISB agent. I knew her when she was a wet-behind-the-ears Coruscant cop, trying to follow in her father’s footsteps, without the handicap of the stick that was shoved up his ass. In spite of her Imperial-ness, she’s a good cop. She’ll make him her project even more that he already is.”

Kal shares his grin. “Yeah. Well, he might have to find some more real estate. His place, well, caught fire and exploded.” He pauses, as if searching his memory. “Or maybe, it exploded and caught fire. Not sure if I can tell the difference, these days. I _am_ old and doddering.”

“Yeah. That loss probably has the art-forgery world in mourning. Those were some good copies. I had to search high and low for them, so that he could impress his clients with his impeccable taste.” The two men share a laugh.

“So what will you do, Kal?” Gallatin asks.

“Don’t know. Might be time to head back to Mandalorian space. There’s nothing for me here.”

Gallatin raises his eyebrows. “What about Cyn?”

“She’s already gone back.” He grins “I let her think she managed to steal some of the data I did find, outside of what everybody was looking for. Might give her bosses in the Unwanteds a bit of a bone. They were, after all, the ones that started this whole thing by getting Krtsador involved.”

Gallatin nods at the mention of Clan _Vheh’yaim_ , the collection of Mando castoffs from other clans, that have managed to carve out a sizable criminal Empire under their shadowy leader. A leader who had married into an ancient clan, but had never settled into the life of the consort of the True Mand’alor. Gallatin doesn’t pry further. _That might just be a story for another time._

Without another word, Kal pulls Gallatin into a deep embrace. He feels Kal’s war-roughened hands move through his hair, surprising him with the tenderness.

As he walks away from the nondescript building, his mind flies back to that time a decade ago. When two, then three Jedi had touched his life. One, a laughing Kiffar, but with hidden demons, had provided him with his alias; from his own disguised identity as a Shadow. The other had been that serene and powerful huntress; grieving the loss of a student, but finding her way and her peace after bringing the killer to justice.

The last memory in his mind is more direct; more tangible. He remembers the pale skin; the scratchy feeling of the beard on his face as they kissed. The blues eyes staring into his own as they both rose to their explosions. The dry as dust Coruscanti accent in his ear, with some sarcastic rejoinder, dissolving into easy laughter.

Acolyte-Prefect Jaten Gorlute, of the _Omriarchiate_ —the guardians of his beautiful world, pulls his coat tighter around him as he walks to the ship. A ship that will take him to reclaim his own name.

+=+=+=+=+=

Nola watches as the Queen gathers herself. Breha looks out at the horizon, then turns back to Nola. “What did you think of that Imperial—Sloane?” she asks.

Nola hesitates. She picks up her water bottle, offers it to the Queen. Breha shakes her head. Nola brings it to her lips and takes a long draft. She carefully replaces the top and sets it down on the ledge.

“She doesn’t seem like any Imperial I’ve ever met. I haven’t met many. Mostly Quarsh Panaka—I’d known him before he became a Moff. He was a trainer by the time I became a Selectee.” She shakes her head. “He never seemed like someone who would buy into the Emperor’s bullshit.”

Breha nods. “I know. He and the Chancellor were great friends, from Palpatine’s time as a Naboo senator.” Nola watches as Breha picks up the metal water bottle, turns it in her hands, examining it from every angle. “What about the others you’ve met? Imperials, I mean,” she says.

“Like I said to Sloane, most of them have spines supported by a poker that seems to have been implanted. Full of themselves, arrogant.”

“What’s her name?” Breha asks suddenly.

“Huh?” Nola responds. She winces at the response.

 _“Her first name_.” Breha says with only a tiny bit of impatience.

“Oh,” Nola replies. “Rae.” The last is said in the smallest voice possible. Nola feels herself flush.

Breha grins, then grows serious. “You do know that she’s part of the same regime that killed your Queen,” she says. “Your sister Handmaidens.”

Nola closes her eyes, hearing the screams and blaster fire. She opens her eyes, immediately meeting Breha’s gaze. “I know exactly what she is, your Majesty,” she says firmly. “I’m not so far gone that I can’t see through a pretty face and a set of _uh_ , broad shoulders. I know what she is,” she repeats. It’s because of what she is, plus what she said about an investigation on Alderaan, that I engaged her.”

“Did you enjoy yourself, Nola?” Breha asks.

Nola’s eyes widen at the question. She looks out at the mountains, unsure of who or what she might betray with her answer. “Yes,” she whispers.

Breha nods with satisfaction “Good. What did you find out?” Breha asks.

Nola blinks twice at the rapid change in questioning. She focuses on a distant temple-spire. “I found out that she grew up on an industrial city-planet. Ganthel, in the Core. She left as soon as she could. Her sister, who did most of her raising while her parents worked, before she became a naval officer, got out as soon as she could, as well. She died over Coruscant—she died a hero, allowing two Jedi to rescue the Chancellor.” She pauses. “Oh, yeah. I almost forgot. Her family has some long ago connection to the ruling Pryde of Ganthel. Not related, but close, at least in the past.”

Breha nods. “Thought so. The current heir to the Conlyn, has the same given name as her family name.” She smiles, but allows her eyes to grow sharp. “Sounds like you got a lot of information from her. What did you give up?”

“Just my first name. I know that my name isn’t connected to the Handmaidens in any way, but—.” She looks down. “I need to keep any repercussions from my family on Naboo.” Her face is thoughtful as she remembers the conversation. "Kinda just listened and talked only a bit,” Nola replies. She meets Breha’s gaze. “What is it, your Majesty?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Her upbringing sounds kind of familiar. A young woman not wanting to continue the family business—doesn’t want to be part of her father’s construction business. Someone related to a well-known figure on her world; distantly at least. Someone with some losses.”

Nola’s eyes widen, then fall. “She’s not me,” she whispers.

“I know, love,” Breha says. “But I think you have enough in common that you might be able to establish a rapport.” She pulls Nola into her arms.

After a moment, Nola pulls her chin back from Breha’s shoulder. “You want me to work her?” she asks.

Breha’s reply is firm. “You don’t have to do anything that you don’t want to do. But I think it would help my world if you did.”

Nola manages to smirk. “Well, we apparently have a date tomorrow.”

The Queen nods. “Yes. But there is one other that might show some interest in you. That’s where Sabe’ comes in with what you need to know.” She stands on her tiptoes and kisses Nola’s cheek. “Again, ‘no’ is an appropriate answer at anytime. You won’t be alone, or at least, will be in close proximity to help.”

Nola smiles tightly. “Been without backup before, your Majesty. I can handle myself, even if I’m a bit rusty. Might take my mind off of some things.” She manages to keep her hand away from her abdomen.

The door open and Sabe’ walks through. She waits patiently.

Nola bows to the Queen of Alderaan. “I exist to serve, your Majesty. I exist to shield. I exist to bear witness.” She takes a deep breath. She feels Breha tense against her. “I exist to die, if I can’t serve or shield in any other way, or can no longer bear witness.” She places the palm of her strong hand; the one with the scar against her forehead, between her eyebrows.

She notices that Sabe’ whispers the Oath, as well, and gives her own obeisance.

_For the dead and the living._

“Remember the part about bearing witness, Nola,” Breha says, before she releases Nola and turns away. “Let yourself realize that’s what you did for Apailana and your sisters.”

+=+=+=+=+=

Gregar Typho watches as the small luxury yacht settles on the floor of the private docking bay. The landing thrusters flare as he thinks of who owns this bay. Another Elder Family; one whose leader despises the one that he now works for. He stares out at the ship; his cleaning uniform helping him blend in. To be on the safe side, he shifts backward into a small alcove. He leans on the electrostatic broom, looking at the ship’s ramp out of the corner of his eye.

As the ramp comes down, his eyes narrow. Eyes because he had left his eyepatch behind for this tiny part of the operation. He goes over his plan in his head. A slight bump would be all that he needs, to set this whole thing in motion.

He grits his teeth as he sees the group of overly large males walk down the ramp, their eyes swiveling on their muscled heads. Several of them lock onto him, but shift their gazes away; noting his apparent harmlessness. He pulls his head down, smiling to himself. The smile fades as he looks over the thugs.

All of them are dressed in identical suits; squeezed into the expensive garments. He notices that soldiers all seem to even have identical haircuts and identical facial expressions. Their bodies are held identically as they walk away from the ship. Their posture indicates that weapons are carried in similar fashion on their right hips.

As the four thugs come together, Gregar remembers other groups of hardened identical soldiers; ones, who at the beginning of their service, had served a larger purpose than profit and the ambition of a few criminals. He remembers that group of soldiers and their humor; their willingness to live and die for each other.

Until they had served the ambitions of one man, rather than ideas and each other. He shakes the thoughts of the clonetroopers away. He had heard the stories of the control chips; of the involuntary slaughter of the Jedi. He wonders how he would’ve felt in the situation that they had found themselves in.

His sidelong gaze falls on another person leaving the ship. He smiles to himself as Hana Shaizan walks into the center of the thugs. The ex-pilot is definitely not clad in a flightsuit; as the glittering gown comes fully into his view. He manages to keep focused on the job at hand, rather than the expanse of skin exposed.

Gregar watches as the group moves out. He eyes the direction that they walk towards; steps out from his alcove. He wonders where Fantos Shaizan is; they had all expected him to attend. The other part of his brain is wondering how he will manage to get the package.

Hana solves the issue for him. She stops the group and walks over to him.

“Hello, my dear,” she says in a light voice. He stammers and stutters, mostly at the boldness of the approach. He is conscious of the eyes of the guards on him; their hands under their open sack coats.

She opens her small clutch. She pulls out a single Imperial credit. “Could you please make sure that the entry port of my ship is cleaned? Here’s a little something extra for your trouble.”

He continues to stammer as the skin of her hand touches his. He manages not to laugh as she drops one eyelid in a quick wink.

As the group moves out, he drops his broom. He looks at the credit; realizes there is a tiny flaw in the corner. He pulls out his datapad. After several tries, he manages to insert the credit into the data slot. A green progress bar fills. He feels the grin flow over his face as it remains steady.

His eyes widen as he sees another display pop up. One with a blank field over the progress bar.

Gregar Typho turns and walks towards the Palace. The jumpsuit and broom lie abandoned in another closet.

+=+=+=+=+=

“So let me get this straight. You want me to go to this shindig on the offchance that this Lord or whatever might get the hots for me, because I kinda look like the Queen’s older sister?”

Sabe’ grins at the young woman’s raised eyebrow. She sees the posture of the young woman, her arms across her chest. They had moved into Nola’s quarters from the veranda; the young woman is clad in her underwear and a thin camisole, as they wait for the Queen. Sabe’ shakes her head and takes a deep breath, then nods. “Well, when you say it like that, it does sound sort of stupid,” she says dryly.

“Sort of?” Nola repeats.

Sabe’ rolls her eyes. “Don’t worry, Nola. Like the Queen said—you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. He may not even notice that you have a resemblance. But he definitely has a type, ever since Deara rejected him. Tall women with dark hair and dark eyes. Your skin’s not quiet as dark as hers; there are other differences, but you’ve definitely got the smartass in you that Deara has.” She grins. “Of course Deara isn’t quite as tall as you. You’re almost as tall as the Senator.”

Nola snorts. “Why don’t you just use the Queen’s sister?” she asks, her eyes narrowed.

“Because we just can’t,” Sabe’ says sharply. She doesn’t explain further, but allows her tone to soften as she sees the protests rising on Nola’s face. “She doesn’t have your training.” Sabe’ sees another question on forming on Nola’s lips. She holds up her hand. “Did you ask so many questions in Handmaiden Selection?” She instantly regrets her words as she sees the shadow cross over Nola’s features. She starts to say something, but Nola waves her away.

“Nola, all you have to do is to attend the levee’; see if Lord Panteer shows interest in you. You talk to him. Distract him. We’ll have somebody get near him or his quarters to see if he has the datapacket on him.”

“Why don’t you just have me do that? What’s the point of using someone who is trained, if you’re going to have someone else do the heavy lifting? The Queen’s sister could do this.”

“She wouldn’t,” Sabe’ says after a moment of a staredown. She places her hands on Nola’s upper arms. “The Queen doesn’t want you at any unnecessary risk.”

Nola rolls her eyes. “I think that the Queen should let me fucking decide what level of risk I should take, Sabe’. She asked me to do this, but she didn’t force me. I may be rusty, but I’ve got a better chance to get this done, if Panteer notices me, rather than someone else. Besides, what was the backup plan if my obvious charm didn’t grab him?”

Sabe’ manages to stifle her eyeroll. “We were going to improvise. But we didn’t think we’ve had to. Panteer has been looking for a wife, but has gone through most of the eligible candidates among the Elder Houses. We’ve put it out that you’ve a connection to royalty. Just enough royal blood that would suit a snob like Panteer, without revealing your origin.” She looks away. “He might be interested because you’re not from Alderaan.”

Nola nods quickly at that. “So it sounds like you’ve been thinking about this for awhile. Not just for this party.”

Sabe’ shakes her head. “No, dear. Not for this possible connection. But the Queen wanted you to have options, if you chose to use your skills and training for Alderaan.” She looks down. “For the galaxy,” she whispers.

Nola nods. “So what do I need?”

Sabe’ sighs. She reaches into her pocket and pulls out what looks like an Imperial credit.

“You want me to bribe him? Little thin for a lord,” she says, with just a hint of snark.

“It’s a chip, twit,” Sabe’ says. “You can put it in the comm we’re going to give you. It’ll give us an indication of a very large datapacket on his person. There are some special additions to the comm. It’ll help block the thing from uploading into our systems.”

“What’re the chances he doesn’t have it?”

“Slim to none, Nola, based on some other intel we’ve gotten from a couple of different places.”

“Okay,” Nola says simply. She looks down at herself. “Don’t think I can go like this. Might raise his interest level though.” Both women giggle. Sabe’ squeezes Nola’s hands around the coin. “That’s the Queen’s part in this. She’ll help you get ready.”

Nola shakes her head. “Didn’t know this was such a big deal.”

Sabe’ tries to hide the devilish glint in her eyes. “We _are_ trying to get him to show you his datapacket.”

As their shared laughter calms to snorts and giggles, Sabe’ tries to keep from rubbing her bicep where Nola had punched her. _Your muscles might not be as out of shape as you think, my  
Sister_, she thinks.

“You’ll forgive me if I try to avoid handling his datapacket,” Nola says, her voice as dry as dust.

_Maybe the snark is close enough to Deara’s._

+=+=+=+=+=

 Rae Sloane stares at herself in the mirror, wishing that she could be anywhere else but in this small rented room on the outskirts of Aldera, not far from the Palace. She reaches up to tight collar of the walking-out uniform with its coat’s longer skirt and more braid; something that Imperial officers rarely wear. Her hands freeze somewhere around her collarbone; her fingers clinching. She forces the digits open before sliding them down the fine gaberwool of the tailored uniform.

She hears a sigh from behind her. Phyllida Enolo, the executive officer of the brand new Imperial Star Destroyer _Resurgent_ , rises from the single rickety chair. She walks over and captures Rae’s hands in her own. “You do know that this damned uniform is made to be uncomfortable, right? So that Imperial officers can maintain that air of dignified menace.”

“I can do that without being choked out,” Rae replies. “Ma’am,” she adds belatedly.

Enolo waves the honorific away. “It’s okay, Rae. You can drop the poodoo in here. Particularly since I just helped you get dressed for the spring formal.” Her dark blue eyes sparkle with a moment’s merriment.

Rae snorts and rolls her eyes. “Thanks, ‘Mom’,” she says. She realizes that the laughter continues for more than just a moment. The older woman is as relaxed as she has ever seen her.

She sees Phyllida grow pensive as her hands rest on the black fabric. A color that she rarely wears as an officer; being usually reserved for marines and now the new stormtrooper corps. The moment passes as the smirk returns to her superior’s face. “You know, as your XO, I could’ve insisted that you wear one of those gowns that the Palace sent over. Might’ve raised some morale.”

“Yeah, the Captain’s,” Rae says. Her eyes widen as she realizes what she has said.

Enolo’s grin doesn’t fade. “I know, Rae. He’s a lustful bastard; probably would be drooling. I’m working on something that might get us all some relief. The fact that he’s also useless as a Captain will help.” Her eyes narrow as Rae takes this in, as if testing the younger officer. Rae wisely changes the subject, burying the mutinous words.

“So any strange protocols that I need to know? You’re from Alderaan, right?” she asks.

“Aside from the fact that everyone strips naked at midnight?” Enolo says with a straight face.

Rae manages to keep the expression of gullible surprise off of her face. Phyllida lets her off of the hook quickly. “No. Not really. Just enjoy yourself, as much as the uniform will allow.” Her eyes lock with Rae’s. “Did you find out anything useful from your talk with the Senator, yesterday?”

Rae shakes her head. “No. Not really. He was very charming and respectful, but he knew nothing of any ISB information, much less escaped prisoners.”

Enolo nods. “He’s a very good politician, Rae. It’ll be good if you and your new friend hit it off. You might have an in with the Royal House that not even the ISB idiot here has. Tell me,” she says, walking over to the window. “What are your impressions of this whole caper? Especially about the ISB end of it. Speak freely,” she adds.

Rae takes a deep breath. “I think this is a wild rathtar chase. I only took it as a favor to Divo. She seemed straight-up about it.” She looks at herself in the mirror. “I’m just in this to find out what happened on Asrah. I want to make sure that the Navy doesn’t come out with a black eye.”

“It wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact that you’re trying to find an angle that will spare those fleet troopers from execution, would it?” Enolo asks casually.

Rae keeps her expression even, as near as she can tell. She opens her mouth.

Enolo beats her to it. “Don’t worry, Rae. Our system is harsh, but necessary. It’s good that you want to have justice for them, but only if it’s for the reason that you don’t want to waste all of their training and assets.”

 _Yeah_ , Rae thinks. _That’s the reason_. Her sister’s face flashes into her mind.

“You should know. The auto-tribunal has started the formal search of their records. If any of them already have a Category-1 demerit, then then there won’t be a damned thing you can do to save them from standing against a wall.”

“I kind of figured,” Rae says.

“Hmm,” Enolo says.

Rae turns around. “What?”

“Guess you must rate. A Royal landspeeder just pulled up.”

Rae walks over to the window, just in time to see the rear door open.

Enolo laughs at her expression. Rae is sure that her jaw is on the windowsill.

“I guess this might be the time to give you the lecture of ‘don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” the Commander says, her own eyes locked on the young woman rising out of the vehicle. “Guess I should’ve invested in that boutonniere for your first date.”

Rae’s rejoinder is bitten back. _That might be a Category-1 demerit_ , she thinks.


	11. You got to give the other fella hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Party time.

Dorith Panteer listens to the chattering of the would-be Imperial moff of the Alderaan sector as guests start to arrive at the levee’. Everything had fallen into place for the gathering; nothing had been left to chance. As he listens to Dairlen Poldar make his case to move from his Colonies sector to the more lucrative Core sector, he thinks about how other aspects of his day were in danger of not falling into place. 

He’d heard no more from Fantos Shaizan since the last communication, two days before. During that comm, which had turned testy after Shaizan had mysteriously refused to advance any more credit for additional information from Krtsador; information that could be repurposed for the salvation of Alderaan. Information that could possibly bring down the Organa-Antilles cabal, before they brought ruin upon the Mother. Information that might also bring more control by the Empire, in the personage of the grasping, ambitious Moff that he is currently ignoring. One who might spell an end, if not to the Ruling House, then to their autonomy under the current weak Moff ostensibly ruling this sector.

Shaizan had promptly hung up on him, saying that there would be no more funds, as the Naboo Queen was starting to ask uncomfortable questions. Questions about why so much cash was going to Alderaan. 

Panteer could care less about any threat to Shaizan’s financial franchise from the Queen. The Queen was merely a puppet of Panaka, the current Moff of the Chommel sector and true ruler of Naboo. Naboo, Shaizan; even Krtsador were all disposable means to an end.

He takes a deep breath, thinking of the decades-long—no, even centuries-long enmity between House Panteer and House Organa. The current iteration went even further back than Queen Mazi and Bail Antilles refusing to grant him a marriage to Deara Antilles.

He looks around at the assembled masses, waiting shaak-like for the arrival of the current Queen and her Consort—the compromise marriage between Antilles and Organa, to move another female to the throne, without the bloodshed of old. A union that had also served to keep anyone named Panteer from sitting on the throne, or serving as Viceroy.

Dorith thinks of the ones truly harmed by the arrogance of that cabal. Deara, who had not been seen in public since Mazi had refused him her hand. The young man who is acknowledged with her name; if not with royal standing. He smiles with pride at the accomplishments of the prodigy, one of the youngest students to achieve both a doctorate in scientific and the medical fields. 

He thinks of his grandfather, alone with his vitriol under house arrest at the estate outside of Aldera. A man who had been sanctioned for questioning the practice of only female members of the Elder Houses sitting on the Candlewick Throne. He smiles slightly. That the old bastard had actually paid money to a mercenary to test Queen Mazi’s security never entered into his calculus of grievance against the Houses that had put him under sanction. A crime that some in the Council of Graces had interpreted as treason.

Panteer thinks of the beginnings of his House’s revival. Hard work in the political spectrum, as well as the business world—as Republic Senator for Fondor, and as Chair of the Board of Blastech—had cemented his own reputation and allowed his family to regain their seat in the Council.

A datapad, resting in a safe in the levee’ host’s quarters, would cement the ascendancy over the Royal House. He sobers. _If I can keep the ISB away until I need them_ , he thinks. His eyes move to the entrance as the Royal party makes its way through the crowd, to their applause. 

His stomach clinches as he sees the pair walking into the room, just behind Breha and Bail. A tall young woman with dark hair and eyes moves slowly into the room. Normally, his eyes would lock on her, but it is the one next to her, their arms interlinked, that causes the tiny bit of fear.

A young woman wearing the walking-out frockcoat uniform of an Imperial naval officer. A young woman that his sources in the PPS tell him is looking into certain caches of information. One of which happens to rest on that datapad in his apartments. A cache that he is trying to find the opening to insert into the Palace’s computer system.

He takes a sip of his drink. He hands the empty glass to the Moff, cutting him off in mid-entreaty. He starts to walk to the Royal Party.

+=+=+=+=+=

Hana Shaizan continues down the ancient streets of Aldera in the direction of the Palace. Her so-called security detail had tried to insist on riding to the Palace in the luxury landspeeder that they had chartered. She had responded by merely turning and walking out of the docking bay. She did realize that the Antol in charge could’ve merely thrown her over his shoulders and dragged her to the speeder, but she was confident that their mandate of keeping tabs on her didn’t extend to physical restraint.

She grins to herself. _Plus, it might not be as easy as the chief thug might think_. One of the lesser thugs had made the mistake of grasping her by her upper arm. A slight bit of pressure in the right place, and the thug was now the proud owner of a common smashball offensive front injury. A pinkie finger now at a right angle to the other digits. 

The grin fades as she turns and sees the unwanted security detail approaching her position. She ducks into a small shop, turning to watch their progress. Her eyes widen as she realizes that this collection of near identical business suits are not her own. She watches as they follow a young woman of Hana’s age down the street. A young woman with golden skin and a strong familial, albeit softer resemblance to Skon Antol, the current _Antol’ich_ of the family. 

It is her clothing that draws Hana’s attention. The young woman— _Leeza, that’s her name_ —is clad in the white tunic and black skirt of an Imperial intelligence or security section. Hana’s eyes narrow on the rank plaque on the woman’s chest, trying to determine her rank. 

_Damned things change from week-to-week; planet-to-planet_ , she thinks. The young woman appears to be either a major or a commander, in Hana’s dim memory of protocols, from before her unceremonious removal from Imperial service. 

She looks around, searching for some avenue to follow her. The fact that a member of a crime family; an organization that has untoward interest in the financial dealings of her world, and by association an interest in the Elder House that her husband is dealing with is also an Imperial agent is worth a look

As she starts to move out, she feels a hamfist on her shoulder. “There you are, woman,” her Antol thug says. “You need to stay with us. I think we might take that landspeeder now.”

She smiles sweetly at him. An instant before she smashes the head of her watch cane into his knee with a double-handed swing for the cheap seats. His hand falls from her shoulder, to be replaced with another. She flips the head attached to the symbol of her new job and shoves it behind her. Hana hears a sharp exclamation; a sound that rises in pitch as she feels the cane make contact with certain soft tissues. Another reverse and flip to the front and the head smashes down on one wrist—a wrist holding a blaster.

The last thug hesitates, giving her just enough time to exit the shop. She notices that she and the thugs’ dance have managed to not break any of the thousands of pieces of glass and ceramic of the tiny shop.

She breaks from her self-congratulation as the other thug recovers and tears out of the shop. There is a loud crash as the thug manages to slam the glass door into the outside wall, shattering it. Hana has little time to mourn the breakage as he pulls his blaster out and opens fire. 

The blaster is not set for stun. 

The mass of people suddenly dive for cover amidst a cacophony of screams and shouts. Hana makes sure that the thug tracks her, then ducks down a solitary alley. She can only hope that he will follow her, away from the crowds, or there will be much more serious concerns than broken windows. 

Hana spots a flash of white and black moving purposefully down a perpendicular street. She shifts her path to follow, no longer caring if the ISB Antol sees her following. 

As she does, she realizes her mistake. The Antol thug with the quick trigger finger exits straight from yet another sidestreet. He smiles and points his blaster and knife combination at her. 

She starts to open her mouth, then closes it as he drops to the ground, a bloody hole in his throat. A small dart drops to the street in front of him. She looks up and to the rear of the Antol thug. 

A helmeted figure lowers its fist. She notes the gauntlet bristling with similar darts and other instruments of destruction. A jerk of the figure’s other wrist and a whip of liqui-cable whistles down, seizing the dart left behind. The figure nods to her as the hand closes on the evidence. As the Mando-armored figure turns and activates a jetpack, As the figure arcs away into the afternoon sky, Hana realizes two things—that the figure is female and her armor is a midnight black with orange highlights.

She hears a noise behind her. She turns, allowing the watch cane to drop from its hidden pocket in the sleeve of her coat. 

Leeza Antol stands watching her, her soldiers’ hands at their waists, but with no weapons drawn. 

“I believe we’re both late for an engagement at the Palace, my dear,” Antol says. “One that might be illuminating for both of us.”

Hana shakes her head. “I think that I may be partied out, Leeza,” she says. “I’ve had enough dancing with some of your kinfolk that sort of invited themselves to the party.”

After a moment, Leeza nods. Without another word, she turns and walks in the direction of the Palace. 

Hana stands watching them leave. She hears the bootsteps of Alderaani Peace and Planetary Security. She reaches down and pulls her shoes off and starts to run for the Palace in another direction. 

She can only hope that she doesn’t look too bedraggled for a Grace’s levee’.

+=+=+=+=+=

Breha take a sip of Toniray and watches the two young women laugh and talk. She smiles as she notices Rae touch Nola’s bare arm at one particular whisper in the naval officer’s ear, an instant before Rae throws her head back in even more unbridled laughter. She looks at Bail, who is watching the byplay as well, probably with a more professional eye that she does at this one moment. He catches her attention on him and smiles. 

She moves her lips to his ear over the low thrum of conversation and laughter. “I know, I know. She’s supposed to be working. But it’s good to see her engaged in something, rather than just staring out of the window,” she whispers. 

She feels Bail’s lips on her neck, just below her ear. “I know,” she feels against her skin, in his warm baritone. “She’s definitely engaged Sloan, unless—.”

“Unless Sloane is playing her, as well,” Breha finishes. “She might be, but that might not be a bad thing, in the long run. I think Nola may be raw, but she has enough experience and training to not let herself be played.”

They both turn their attention to the subject of today’s little operation. Dorith Panteer is listening to an Imperial moff, his eyes on something in the crowd. She looks at Bail. His divided attention is on the moff, and on the two young women, with furtive glances at them. 

_Promising_ , she thinks. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Bail’s eyes narrow at Dorith. She follows his gaze. She realizes that the expression on the Grace’s face is not one of the hoped-for interest in Nola. She tracks the direction of his gaze. His furtive glances are at Rae and her uniform.The glances that he makes towards the officer are not exactly appreciative of how Rae’s uniform fits her body, either. 

The looks are those of fear.

“I think we may have miscalculated, having Nola come to this thing with an Imperial.”

Bail nods. “Maybe. It does show that he might have something to fear or hide,” he says.

Breha takes a deep breath, allowing the pulmonodes to release it after a moment. “I think I might have to stir something up. Nola’s beautiful in that outfit, but there’s a lot of beauty here. I think I might need to give her something extra; something that’ll appeal to his lust for power and vengeance, as well the other type of lust.

She sees her husband’s eyes move to Nola, then to Dorith. “I don’t know how I feel about this whole part,” he says.

She taps him on his forehead. “She’s had ample opportunity to back out. We’re not asking her to sleep with him. But she may be our best chance to get the information. This may be her best chance to prove to herself what we know; that she can be useful in what we’re doing. That she can at least be part of something again, even a small part.”

He nods after a moment. His eyebrows raise. “Looks like we may have another problem,” he says, pointing with his forehead.

Bre’s eyes follow his. She grits her teeth. A splash of white at the entrance; white over black draws everyone’s attention. A young woman stands watching the assembly. “So who invited the damned ISB?” Breha asks. 

“Apparently, Dorith did,” Gregar says, walking up to her. “Unwittingly.”

Both Breha and Bail turn and look at their new Captain of the Royal Guard.

“She might not be here in her official capacity. Her name is Leeza Antol.”

Realization cuts through Breha at the name. 

“Yes. That Antol. The crime family from Naboo,” a young woman says, walking up behind Gregar. 

“Your Majesty, your Highness, this is Hana Yung-Shaizan. She’s been a help to me in unraveling some of this.”

Hana bows to them both. Breha and Bail look at one another at the mention of her married name, but say nothing.

“I think that she might have one effect that might help us,” Bail says, his eyes tracking back to Nola.

Rae Sloane is making her way over to the more senior officer. Nola stands watching her. Breha can see the wheels turning in the young woman’s head.

“This may be my part in this farce,” Bail says. His eye motion to Gregar. Both of them move towards the Imperial, who suddenly turns and stalks out of the chamber, as Rae follows.

Breha nods at Hana. “Go with them, my dear, if you would. Make sure they don’t get into trouble.” She notices that her sole Handmaiden is moving in that direction as well. 

She breathes in, then out again. “It’s time for my own part in the play,” she whispers to herself. She starts to edge through the crowd to Nola.

_Before it becomes a tragedy._

+=+=+=+=+=

Dorith, Lord Grace of the Elder family of Panteer, watches as the Imperial officer moves away from her escort, making her way over to the ISB woman. He continues to track the officer as she moves over. His eyes widen as he sees the ISB officer spots the younger naval version. A flash of dark green brings Dorith’s attention back to the spot that the naval officer had vacated. 

Dorith watches as Queen Breha leans up on tiptoe and whispers in the tall young woman’s ear. A young woman who up until about two minutes ago, had been on the naval officer’s arm. He watches with interest as the Queen takes the younger woman’s hand and arm in her own. The younger woman, perhaps not even twenty, laughs, looking down at the much shorter royal with something like gratitude. He fixes his eyes on Breha’s face, watching her expression. 

He sees something there; something he had seen directed at others, including the taller version that had once found his heart. An expression never directed at him, especially since she had become the Princess Royal in place of her older sister. 

Raw, unhindered affection.

He focuses his attention on the young woman, a longer look now that the Imperial interest might be directed elsewhere. His eyes widen at the expression on the young woman’s face. A neutral expression, tempered with a light in her dark eyes. Eyes that are focused on him, confident, with just a hint of snark. A slight smile quirks the right side of her mouth upward. She looks down and gives Breha a much wider smile as the Queen moves away. 

Dorith looks at the young woman in a new light—a new light energized by the byplay with Queen Breha of House Antilles, joined with House Organa. _Perhaps a bit too tall_ , he thinks. _Awkward even. But of age and attractive_. His eyes track downward to the day dress that she wears. A dark green gown, shot with highlights of gold. The bodice leaves her shoulders and arms bare; the thin arms covered only at the biceps. Even with the amount of bare skin, the effect, coupled with her youth is almost innocent—virginal even. 

The effect is maintained until his eyes track slightly downward. He grins as he sees the slight dip of the dress below her breasts to just above her navel. He shakes his head, brings his eyes back up to hers. The sarcastic glint seems to have grown. 

Dorith makes a decision. He shifts his feet, then moves over to where the young woman waits, almost expectantly.

He holds out his hand as he moves up to her. He realizes that she is actually a few centimeters taller than him. He takes a deep breath as her hand touches his. He quickly brings her hand to his lips, then drops it down to her waist, still holding it in a loose grip. 

“I’m Lord Panteer,” he says.

Another smile quirks her features. “I know, your Grace. I’m Nola,” she replies. “Nola Vorserrie,” she add almost as an afterthought.

He feels his left eyebrow raise. “That’s Naboo, isn’t it?” Dorith sees something flicker in her eyes. He files that. The something is only present for a second. 

“Yes, your Grace,” she says. “Originally.”

He looks around; the crowd seems to be growing. He looks back at the young woman; looks into her eyes. He realizes that she has a tiny smattering of freckles on the bridge of her slightly upturned nose.

“It’s getting crowded in here. Perhaps we can go to my sitting room?”

She glances at the door, takes a deep breath and then looks back at him. Her hand moves to piece of gold on a chain between her breasts. His eyes follow her hand, realizes that the gold is a single Imperial credit. 

He offer her his arm. As they walk towards the exit, he sees her trade a brief look with another young woman, one wearing the rainbow mantle of a Royal Handmaiden. He pushes it to the back of his mind, as other thoughts intrude. He smiles to himself. 

_The information is safe_ , he thinks, smiling to himself. _It might be time for some personal revenge on the Organas, as well as political._

An heir from one of their circle could suffice. 

As Dorith and Nola exit, only one of them sees the thunderous looks on several Royal and royal servant’s faces.

Sabe’ curses to herself. _Nobody said anything about going off alone with him_.

+=+=+=+=+=

Rae tries to push her way to the crowd, her eyes on her objective. She had heard nothing from Divo that another, more senior ISB agent was on her way to look over her shoulder. She sees the woman glance back over her shoulder; with no fear, merely cataloging Rae’s position. 

Her view of the ISB officer is blocked by the bulk of a very large Crolute. The barrier to her forward progress turns, his small eyes widening as they fall on her face. Apparently something he sees, along with her uniform, causes him to rethink his life choices. She manages to sidestep and push past him when he doesn’t move fast enough. 

“Shit,” she says as she sees the exit close. She manages to push her way past a very small human, who looks up at her with interest flowing into his dark gray eyes. He opens his mouth to say something, but stops as she manages to push past him, as well. 

“I’ll catch you later, darling,” she hears in a downcity Coruscant accent. 

_In your dreams, you little ingrate_ , she thinks as she finally reaches the exit. She turns around, her eyes seeking the flash of dark green and gold. Her shoulders slump slightly as she sees Nola walking out on the arm of some rich ponce. She shakes her head. _Guess that part of the operation will have to wait_ , she thinks as she heads through the door. She tamps down the regret. She and Nola had laughed and listened to one another, neither with any jockeying for position that marked her acquaintances in the Navy. Just pure laughter and enjoyment. She is under no illusions that this friendship or flirting could go anywhere further. Rae gets the idea that her XO would like it to go further, for any political leverage that might be gained with the ruling house of Alderaan.

Rae looks left, then right, then stops. She curses to herself again, frustration growing in her mind. She wonders what the hell she is doing here; why she isn’t making her way upwards in the hierarchy of the Navigation Department of the _Resurgent_. She was only a couple of efficiency points behind the assistant Navigator, with the approval of her work by the XO. She’s not an investigator. She curses the so-called ‘illness’ of the duty marine officer that had led her to be sent to the surface of Asrah Prime. As she closes her eyes, she clears her mind of her career, as well as the burgeoning friendship with Nola Vorserrie. 

As she opens them again, her eye catches a pair of dark-trousered legs heading through another door to her right. She lowers her chin to her chest and starts to jog towards the door. She hesitates only a half-second before seizing the ornate door handle. She barrels in and slides to a stop. 

Two very large humans, almost identical with cropped black hair and drooping mustaches stare at her. Both of them wear tight, expensive gray business suits. One of the suits, she notices, is much darker than the other. Very similar to the black of ISB dress trousers. She closes her eyes. _She was wearing a skirt, dumbass._

She opens her eyes, then smiles at the behemoths. “Hello boys. Is this the meeting of overfed assholes with overpriced clothing?” She winces inwardly, but keeps the smile on her face. 

The darker suit looks at the other one, as both draw blasters from their right hips. Her eyes fall on the blades that extend from the weapons. “Use the blades. No blasters,” dark-suit says. 

The other one lunges. Rae calls on her rusty hand-to-hand training to sidestep, manages to trap the arm with the blaster-knife attached to it. 

Part of her mind wonders if Nola is enjoying her time at the levee’ more than she is.

+=+=+=+=+=

Nola takes a sip of the Toniray whisky cocktail; follows it up with a larger sip of water. She can only hope that Dorith wouldn’t resort to any drugs in the drink. She had snagged them both from a server-droid’s tray and hadn’t let them out of her sight since they had sat down. She listens intently to Dorith’s recitation of his bloodlines, bloodlines going back to the founding of the Republic. She manages not to roll her eyes when his eyes are distracted by his comm. 

She knows that she will only have a brief window to insert the credit into her specially prepared comm, to try and find the datacache. She wonders how she will be able to make the move, short of offering a trip to the bedroom that she had glimpsed on the brief tour of the Host’s quarters. Nola takes a deep breath, as she realizes that she needs to accomplish her mission, as it will probably be her last. She had seen an opportunity to accomplish the mission and had taken it. She was not sure that the Queen and Viceroy would see that the risk she had taken was worth the return.

She was convinced that it was. She had gotten the sense of how important this information was, both in keeping the Empire from finding the stolen data as well as keeping a rival House at bay. Now, she just has to figure out how to get the Grace out of the room.

She reaches up to the chain around her neck; the small gold chain that she had attached the coin to. Her hand falls on the tiny metal capsule that was already attached. 

Her eyes widen as she remembers the warm crimson hand of her foster-sister closing over it in her fifteen-year old hands. She manages to stifle a sob as she hears Dani’s warm alto in her mind.

 _One drop, No-no_ , the memory says. _One drop in a drink and whoever is threatening you will drop long enough for you to get away. For at least twenty minutes. They won’t even feel any after effects._

She looks at Panteer. He is engrossed in a text. She pulls the capsule from its seat on the chain and quickly separates the top. She dumps it in Dorith’s drink. 

Nola takes a deep breath, then reaches out and touches Dorith’s cheek. “Your Grace—,” she starts. His piercing blue eyes lock on her. He smiles, the pencil mustache twitching slightly. She looks down. She manages to keep from punching him as his eyes follow her gaze to her chest. Instead, she throws her shoulders back. She pulls his drink up and hands it to him. He takes a long drink.

As she waits, as his hand moves to her cheek, she sends a silent entreaty for forgiveness to Dani Faygan. Her heart twists as she realizes that Dani might not even know she is alive. Just like her family. She feels Panteer’s head slump on her chest. She counts to twenty, then pulls his head up by his dark ponytail. 

She grabs her clutch and pulls the tiny comm from it. She fumbles a bit with the coin, then finally pulls the chain from her neck. She inserts the coin as Sabe’ had showed her, then watches as the green progress bar starts to inch forward.

+=+=+=+=+=

Breha’s eyes narrow as she looks at the door that Nola has just passed through. She turns to Sabe’, whose eyes are just as thunderous. “Do we know that she went to his quarters with him?” she asks, spitting out the words. “Could they just be out for a romantic walk on the veranda?”

“I don’t think so, your Majesty. She was fixated on the objective. Unless he had it on his person, the code detector wouldn’t work.”

“He didn’t make a move to get the hell out when Antol—the ISB agent walked in,” Gregar says as he walks up. 

“She also snagged two drinks and some water before she left. She’s thinking tactically. She won’t have to accept a drink from him. She’ll also probably drink more water than alcohol.”

“Unless he happens to slip something in her drink.”

“What does he have to gain from that, your Majesty?” Hana Yung-Shaizan says. “He probably knows she’s under your protection.”

Bail touches Breha’s shoulder. He and the others had returned, a shake of the head indicating they had not been able to contact Leeza Antol. “He’s a cad and a seducer, Bre,” he says, uncharacteristically using his nickname for her in public. “I don’t think he’s a rapist. We have to trust Nola.”

Breha closes her eyes. She thinks of Nola lying unconscious on the medical bed after she had come to Alderaan, after the slaughter. She opens them and nods quickly. She sees Gregar holding his hand to his earpiece. She waits expectantly. 

“PPS, in the University District, have intercepted a number of armed thugs waiting just outside the Palace District. They appear to be dressed just like a bunch of Antols.” He purses his lips. “They didn’t say much, but there appeared to be more of them at one time. I wouldn’t put it past them to try to infiltrate the Palace. Especially if they’re with someone who was invited.”

Bail nods. “Have your guards start looking. Be quiet about it; we don’t want to spook anyone. Friend or foe.”

Breha nods in agreement. “I want this thing ended today,” she says.

+=+=+=+=+=

Nola stares at the tiny screen of her comm, waiting for the progress bar to fill. She hears a sigh from the unconscious noble on the couch. She half-considers kicking him in the face, just on general principles for the Organas, but decides against it at the last second. 

She feels her breathing calm as she closes her eyes. As she does, she allows her mind to wander outside of the luxurious rooms of the Palace. She wonders what her future holds. Does she accept a position with the Organas, as a Handmaiden or Palace Guard, on the off chance that the Queen forgives her for going off alone with Panteer? Does she attempt to go back home? Neyutnee and Jamilla have assured her that her identity is secret; that her family is safe in the tiny industrial and manufacturing province on the other side of the world. There is a not a large Imperial presence in Aewig; her family’s safety has been assured, especially with her brother holding a critical position in the Security Volunteers of the planet, with the ability to warn of Imperial activity.

Nola hears a ding and feels a buzz from the comm. She opens her eyes; checks Panteer, then looks down at the screen. She smiles slightly as a red Imperial symbol replaces the progress bar. An Imperial symbol with a file size indicator in the three terabyte range. 

The datacache is located in close proximity. It would be up to any slicers that the Organas employed to isolate it and keep it from being uploaded to the Palace computers. She punches a code into the comm; starts to pull the coin from the slot. 

Her eyes widen as the symbol is replaced with two Aurabesh words. She sits down as she reads her choices. 

_Delete idiosyncratic code host?_

_Capture idiosyncratic code host?_

She stares at the screen. She fights to remember what she had been taught, in a brief class in Selection training. A class that had not exactly been high on her list of priorities. She grins. _Jannie Hotes’s smile had been higher on the priorities_ , she thinks. Handmaiden trainee crushes and other parts of her past disappear as she focuses on the dry tones of the Security instructor. _Idiosyncratic codes can be touchy. Someone may have an opportunity to delete a file marked by this type of encryption code marker, but either deleting or capturing them can be dangerous. These operations can leave an indelible marker on any device that attempts them. Not just on the device, but in the operating system and the account._

She closes her eyes at the choices. She can make either choice; either choice would offer easy salvation to the Queen and her world. The markers would only identify her, as the comm is registered to her, with no connection to Alderaan. Nola stares at the blinking choices.

Both represent salvation for the world that took her in, at the cost of her own freedom, and most probably her life. She sees the faces of Queen Apailana, as well as the dead Handmaidens staring back at her from the tiny screen.

The easy path. 

There is a third choice. She shakes her head. A tiny bit more difficult, but one that would allow her to continue to fight. As she scrolls further down the screen, she finds the ‘exit’ command. _The slicers can have their moment_. As she selects the command, she imagines that her dead nod at her, their dream-faces breaking out in smiles. Her expression matches theirs, for at least a half-minute. Nola’s eyes widen as she stares at the screen, at the file symbol.

The size indicator reads ‘zero’. She hits the refresh key. The Imperial symbol has disappeared as well. She punches one last sequence, a sequence given to her by Sabe’.

It is as if the file was never there. She yanks the coin out, re-inserts it. She tries to fight the rising panic.

The coin no longer registers. She stands up. Panteer’s head slips off of the armrest of the sofa. She manages to grab his ponytail, before it hits the floor. He doesn’t even stir as she lowers his head back gently. Her breathing increases in speed as she attempts to figure out what the hell she should do. She runs her fingers through her hair. She stops. _Can’t do anything about it now_.

She feels a deep thump in the wall, a thump that is slightly distant, as if from a room that isn’t immediately adjacent. She hears a curse and a brief scream after another thump. Nola’s heartrate increases as she identifies the voice.

A voice that she had last heard laughing at one of her stupid jokes, the owner’s dark eyes mirroring the smile on her features. She turns and heads towards the door, hoping that she can find Sloane.

She glances at the screen of her comm. It flashes with a blinking, fresh text. 

_You’re fine, sweetie._

The gold chain and coin rests on the opposite arm of the couch from the unconscious Grace.

+=+=+=+=+=

Rae winces as her back connects with the wall. She manages to push off and face her remaining opponent. She stares at him through her one open eye. The other is swollen shut from repeatedly bruising the thug’s knuckles, while managing to avoid the knife on the end of the blaster. 

The thug in the darker suit lies unconscious on the polished wooden floor, his nose oozing blood. His blaster had been swept under another chair; she was unable to get to it, as the current thug swings the blade at her. She tries to lift her right arm to join her left in the fighting stance. The pain shows red in her vision; she feels the blood oozing from the deep knife wound the length of her forearm, in front of the elbow. 

She takes a deep breath, then curses the ISB, and that goddamned malingering marine officer. She curses Nola Vorserrie and all of the fates. She should be at this moment, possibly doing nothing more dangerous than unzipping the top of the fancy dress.

Rae shakes her head, clearing them of the thoughts. _That probably wouldn’t have been where we wound up. I would’ve just enjoyed talking and laughing with her._

The thug lifts his lip in a sneer. She idly wonders if he was going to forget the fancy knifework and just shoot her in the face; although that would probably bring the world down on him in a Royal Palace.

She’d be just as dead. 

A wave of dizziness passes over her single eye. The thug sees it, tightens his grip on the blaster-blade. She tries to straighten, but the dizziness brings her to her knees. The thug moves towards her. Out of the corner of her open left eye, she sees a dark green blur. A very tall, dark green blur. 

Nola seizes his blaster and knife hand. Rae’s single eye widens as she sees the young woman place her thumb and three fingers in a very distinctive and familiar pattern. The thug screams as his wrist is suddenly at an incorrect angle. He strikes out with his other hand, connects with Nola’s cheek. The thug reaches behind him and pulls a larger knife from the back of his belt. He moves towards Nola who is trying to recover her feet. 

Rae feels a metallic object near her good hand. She and Nola’s right hand close on it at the same time. There is no time to separate. 

The bolt from their shared grasp of the blaster connects with his chest. He drops to the floor and doesn’t move. Rae and Nola slump against one another. Rae is very conscious of the bare skin of Nola’s arms. She manages to focus her good eye on the younger woman. She touches the darkening bruise and slight cut under her eye.

“Took your goddamned sweet time,” Rae says.

Nola rolls her eyes. “I thought I’d give you enough time to entertain the troops,” she replies. 

_We’re okay_ , Rae thinks. “So did you snag the rich noble you ditched me for? Thought you’d just be finishing up.”

Nola grins. “He fell asleep. Got to get back so that he thinks I rocked his world.”

“Yeah, you better,” comes a dry voice at the door. Rae stares at the woman with a simple robe and a rainbow mantle over her hair. A small blaster is held muzzle-up. “You’re missing your necklace,” she says. 

Nola’s hand goes to her throat. The woman jerks her head. Nola helps Rae to her feet. Rae notices that her feet are bare. She sees a man with an eyepatch in a civilian suit take her arm, steadying her. “I’ve got her, Nola. Medical’s on its way.”

Rae pulls Nola’s forehead to her. “You owe me some drinks, Stinkeye,” she says. 

“I’m not actually old enough to drink. You’ll have to buy.”

Her laughter follows Nola from the room. 

+=+=+=+=+=

Phygus Baldrick watches as the tall young woman enters the room. Very few guests are left, as the host had mysteriously disappeared. The diminutive slicer watches as Nola clutches the chain and coin combination in her left hand. He watches as she trudges over to the Royal party in the corner. His gray eyes soften at the bruise on her cheek. As she approaches the dais, he sees her stop, then straighten. 

She lifts the coin and places it back over her head, adjusting where it disappears into the bodice. He sees her chin lift as she starts to make the final few steps. He nods, a smile coming onto his lips. 

He hopes that the text he had sent after she had made her choice would reassure her.

His comm buzzes. He lifts it, sees the words in Aurabesh on the text. 

_Come home, Touchstone. You’ve done enough_

He rises from the bench to his full height, which isn’t very much higher. He turns, unseen and walks to the nearest exit.


	12. Epilogue:…Is a Failure to Communicate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Endings, beginnings, and new paths. Lots of drinking.

Nola looks up from her datapad in the morning sun as she hears a noise in the rooms next to the secluded balcony of the Palace. Without explanation, one of the Palace staff had shown up and told her that she was being moved to different quarters. She wonders if this is a prelude to being unceremoniously ejected from the place that she lived in for the past several months.

She shakes her head. _Paranoid, much?_ Her reception when she had walked up to Breha and Bail in the aftermath of the levee’ had been chilly, but correct. 

She looks around the spacious balcony, then back into the larger apartments. Nothing luxurious, but an extremely comfortable pair of rooms. She chuckles to herself. _Not exactly a dungeon.  
_

“I didn’t know you could read, Stinkeye,” a warm voice says. 

Nola feels the smirk flow to her face, then replaces it with a warm smile. She rises from the deck chair and places the datapad on the table. “Yeah, my lips are getting tired, Squidlet,” she says. 

Rae Sloane stands in the door, a matching expression on her face. Her left hand is in the pocket of her service trousers; the right hangs down at her side. Her tunic is nowhere to be seen; she is clad in a sleeveless off-white shirt, opened slightly at the neck. Nola allows her gaze to play over the definition of Rae’s arms and shoulders. She shakes her head. 

Nola closes the distance to the door, then stops. She reaches down and lifts Rae’s right arm, turning it over. She touches the healing knife-scar; runs her index and middle finger over it. She brings her eyes up to Rae’s. 

Rae smiles and says, “Feels good, Stink.”

Nola allows the smirk to return. “Sorry you got hurt on our first date,” she replies.

Rae rolls her eyes. “It’s okay. That hardass with the eyepatch got me to bacta quickly. Won’t even scar. I need to thank the Queen and Senator for that.”

“I think they were a bit chagrined that there was blood and blasterfire at a Grace’s levee’ in their Palace.” She falls silent, realizes that she’s still caressing the scar. She drops the arm hastily.

“So what’s next for you?” Rae asks. “You staying here?”

“Don’t know. Might depend on how much hospitality that the Queen and Senator have,” Nola replies. She looks down. Rae moves her fingers under her chin, lifts her gaze back up.

“I think you might be useful to have around, Nola,” she says. “I’m still trying to wrap my head around how you executed such a perfect Three Twist on that thug’s wrist. That takes years of practice, sometimes.”

Nola feels her stomach drop at the casual mention of the martial arts move. Fortunately, it was one that she had learned well before her Handmaiden training. “Overprotective foster-sister,” she says. “I had to learn something to counteract an asshole of an older brother, who seemed to delight in the fact that I seem to be one big tickle-spot,” she finishes. 

“A martial arts move to counteract simple tickling? One tough family,” Rae says. She grins. “Good to know about the tickle-spots.”

“You should see me shoot,” Nola says. She smiles as her mind’s eye falls on the feel of warm crimson arms against her skinny sticks as Dani steadies her arms, her Corellian service weapon in the twelve-year old’s hands. A lifetime ago, just before the Separatist war. Just before everything changed.

Rae clears her throat, bringing her back to the present. “So you’re going to be what that woman with the blaster is? What’s it called? A Handmaiden?”

Nola manages to keep her expression even as she fights other memories. Rae must notice as she touches her hand to Nola’s shoulder. “No,” she says. “I think I’m just going to sit back and see what they have in mind for me. The Senator mentioned maybe becoming one of his apprentice staff members. A Junior Representative, he called it,” she says.

“So, a politician,” Rae says. “How long before you’re ruling the world?”

“Jakku might freeze over,” Nola says emphatically. Rae laughs, then sobers.

“I’ve got some choices to make, as well,” she says. Nola watches her own apparent struggle. Rae shakes her head. “I think that you’re raw, right now, Nola. But, I also think that you have some potential. The Empire could use that potential.” She takes Nola’s hand in hers again. “I think I could get you into the naval academy at Carida. Got a friend who’s an admissions officer.”

“Oh hell no,” Nola replies. “I have two left feet when it comes to marching and can’t fly anything that goes over a thousand feet in the air for shit.”

Rae is silent for a moment. Nola closes her eyes, hoping that she hasn’t let her mouth run too far.

“I’m pretty sure that they might be able to teach a Kowalkian monkey-lizard how to fly,” she replies, a smile growing over her features. “They might be tested by you, though, Stink.”

After their laughter subsides, she looks at Nola. “So what about us? What is this?” Rae asks. 

Nola takes a deep breath, thinking of what she is about to embark upon. “I don’t know, Rae. It’s been great to have someone to talk to and laugh with. I—” She stops. 

Rae doesn’t back down. “I think that as much as I would love to take this a bit further, I don’t think that’s what you need right now. I don’t know what you’ve been through, but I see some of the pain sometimes. I’d love to help you banish some of that, even if it’s just somebody to listen to on a comm or read your holomail.”

Nola sits down. Rae eases onto the couch next to her. “I don’t know what to say, Rae,” Nola manages to stammer. 

Rae grins. “Of course, it doesn’t mean that we might not explore a bit of the benefits along the way, if you like. But I’m comfortable with the laughter and friendship.” Her eyes turn devilish. “Maybe you’ll get better at flirting, so that you can chase after whatever noble git that catches your eye.” She reaches up and touches the blackening left eye that is just starting to fade. “How did you explain this to said git?”

Nola smirks. “I told him I was so good that he elbowed me in the throes of passion.”

“Did he buy it?” Rae asks. 

“Let’s just say that it helped that his pants were unzipped and something was hanging out when he woke up from his nap,” Nola replies.

“It must have worked,” comes a warm voice from the door. Both women rise before they can laugh as Breha walks out onto the balcony, a tiny princess in her arms. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Rae smirking through her own bow.

Nola feels the heat of her blush as she bows. 

“His Grace, Lord Panteer has sent a message to the Palace, asking formal permission to have you to tea tomorrow afternoon,” Breha says, her own smirk matching Rae’s.

Nola’s eyes widen. She reaches out and kicks Rae as the smirk deepens. Breha laughs at the move. She looks at Rae. “I know that you only have a little bit of time to talk, Lieutenant, before your ship leaves. But could I have a few moments of Nola’s time? We have a bit to discuss.”

Rae’s face is thoughtful. After a moment, she nods. “Of course, your Majesty. I’m at your disposal.” She bows.

“Captain Typho will give you a tour of the Palace,” Breha says, motioning behind her. Typho walks in and nods. 

As Rae turns to follow him, Breha speaks again. “I have it on good authority that Stinkeye has a routine that she follows. A hard workout later in the morning, then an inordinate amount of time wasting hot water in a deeptub. I’m sure Captain Typho will show you where the gym or the tub is located.” 

Nola is treated to the sight of Rae’s widened eyes.

“Matchmaking again, your Majesty?” she asks dryly when they are alone.

“Perhaps. Is it working?”

“Maybe not. I think we might be friends, though,” she says. 

Breha’s dark eyes bore into her. After a moment, she smiles and nods. She hands Leia to the caretaker droid, who leaves the balcony.

“So tell me, Nola. Your new friend.

“Could you kill her if you needed to?”

Nola sits down heavily, her heart twisting.

+=+=+=+=+=

Cyn Elder walks slowly into the bar. At this time of the morning, only several unconscious patrons are present except for the one figure at the bar.

The elderly Togruta bartender wipes an almost pristine bartop with a cloth held in the claw of his mechanical hand. His eyes narrow as he takes her in. She knows that the dark red _beskar’gam_ , underneath a long open coat can’t be reassuring to bartenders.

This one, however, might be from tougher stock. He points a montral at the end of the bar. Cyn raises an eyebrow at one patron who might actually be conscious. She takes a deep breath and walks over the figure. She realizes that the figure’s scarf-hood is down around her throat. Her thrift-store military surplus raincoat is open, so that her weapons are in easy reach as well.

“Thought you’d left town,” she says, without looking up from her glass.

Cyn ignores the challenging tone and walks over to the woman and holds out of her hand palm up at the barstool next to her. After a moment, Fulcrum nods. She holds up two fingers at the bartender. Cyn’s eyes widen at the lineup of six empty shot glasses in front of the young woman Kal had called Fulcrum.

“I guess you’re not a lightweight,” Cyn says. 

“Good genes,” is all that Fulcrum says. “So why are you here, Cyn?”

“Came to check on you after all that bullshit with Kal and Krtsador.”

She hears a snort. “Really? Thought you were looking to see if I had my legs wrapped around Kal’s back or something.”

Cyn smiles. “No. We’re just together for laughs and for when he needs a shoulder to lean on when the memories overwhelm him. The jealousy’s all for show.” The smile turns devilish. “To tell you the truth, I think he likes it. Might keep him coming back to me.”

Fulcrum turns and looks directly at her for the first time. Cyn feels the blue eyes boring into her. Cyn turns away, glances at the bartender. She nods when she sees the pain in his eyes. She turns back to the woman—girl—and meets her gaze. 

“What about you, Fulcrum. Do you need a shoulder to lean on?”

An expression that mirrors the bartender’s for a brief second shows in those windows, before being replaced by a powerful Smirk. “You think that you might provide something else to lean on? For someone other than a geriatric?”

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees the bartender roll his remaining eye. 

“Maybe,” Cyn says quietly.

Fulcrum looks down. “Not really in the mood for wrestling. Right now, I need someone to keep an eye on Selda here. He’s a good man, but he could use some help occasionally.” She looks over at Selda, who remains expressionless. “He means a lot to me.”

Cyn nods. She doesn’t bother asking what might be in it for her. An Oath that she was preparing to swear after her training was completed didn’t allow her to ask, although the heritage of the world that she had adopted might just require it. “I can do that. I’m in and out of here enough that I can check in on him. Might actually need a sanctuary when I wear out my welcome.”

Fulcrum’s eyes move to the ceiling. “Can’t imagine you ever doing that, dear.” She gets up and pulls out a handful of credits. Selda shakes his head. She gives him a thunderous look, then softens. She nods and gives him a look that speaks of more than a few adventures. 

“See you around, Cyn,” she says. “Maybe next time I’ll be in more of a mood for that shoulder. And other parts.”

Cyn pulls her gaze back to Selda. He pulls a full bottle of chilled _netra’gel_ from the cooler and hands it to her. She realizes that there is a piece of flimsi stuck to the condensation. She takes the paper and unfolds it. Her eyebrow raises at the address at a spaceport hostel written in a shaky, spidery hand. As if written with the hook of an artificial limb.

Selda is expressionless under her raised eyebrow. “She has about ten hours before a pickup takes her off into the stars. I expect her to get six hours of sleep or so. I know a shortcut.”

Cyn nods. “So what will she think of her little Mando surprise?”

“She’ll ask questions before shooting,” he replies. His scarred face softens. “Sometimes her bartender knows best.”

Cyn walks down the street. Her comm buzzes and she pulls into an alcove, making sure the holo is shielded from view. 

She bows, and places her palm between her brows. The holo smiles and returns the gesture. A tall young woman with a scarred cheek looks at her, a golden knot at the shoulder of her scarlet, hooded robe. “Hello, Cyne’,” Storae’ says. 

“My Sister,” Cyn replies as respectfully as she can. 

“Is everything going as planned?”

“Yes, Storae’,” Cyn replies. “I’ll soon be heading back to Mandalore. The Unwanteds are expecting my report of all of the chaos I’ve sown.”

“It seems to be something you’re good at. Much more than the makeup tips and softer skills.”

Cyn snorts. 

“About that,” Storae says. “Our Zeltron friends want to thank you for the little bug you put in our furry friend’s ear confirming that ISB information. It sowed the appropriate amount of chaos for some allies of theirs.” She smirks. “They want to repay you by enrolling you in some classes for some of those softer skills.”

“I’ve had no complaints, Chief Handmaiden,” Cyn say. 

Storae’s look softens. “Be careful Cyn. I want you to come home to us soon so that we can celebrate your formal initiation as my newest Sister.”

Cyne’, Handmaiden-Selectee and Mandalorian warrior, says nothing. She merely repeats the obeisance and signs off. 

She thinks of the best route to a certain address, to help another in the fight for light. 

+=+=+=+=+=

Nola is silent for several moments. She finally opens her eyes and looks up at Breha. “I don’t know, your Majesty. Do you want me to murder her? ‘Cause I don’t think that’s what my Queen and sisters died for. I don’t think it’s what I survived for, either.”

Both women stare at each other for several more moments. Finally, Breha sits next to her in the seat that Rae Sloane had vacated. Breha pulls Nola closer to her. She notes the stiff posture when Breha touches her. She waits until Nola relaxes.

Nola turns to her. Tears in her eyes. “I’ll pack my things and go, your Majesty.”

Breha pulls her closer into an embrace. “Why would you do a thing like that, No-no, when you just started your new job?”

Nola lifts her head from Breha’s shoulder. Her eyes widen. “I thought I had failed. I guess I don’t know what the hell you and the Senator are looking for,” she says. 

“I’m not looking for a murderer, that’s for damned sure,” Breha replies quickly. 

Nola’s right eyebrow raises. “I’m not sure that I know what you mean, your Majesty. I’m confused.” She looks out over the skyline. “I thought I failed last night. I couldn’t find the information. I mean, I had it for a moment, but it disappeared. I thought that I had dumped it or something.”

“I’ll let Bail explain it all to you, when you meet with him. Suffice it to say—you showed us a few things. One, you’ve still got some growing to do. Two, you can be as stubborn as the day is long, especially when someone you might care about is threatened. We didn’t expect you to charge in there without a weapon when the thugs attacked Rae.”

Breha watches as Nola digests her word. “All those sound like flaws, my Queen,” she says. Breha notes the possessiveness of her use of her title. 

“Maybe. We’re all learning this thing as we go. I think we’ll be learning some things together.”

She stands up. Nola scrambles to her feet. “You’ve got a very busy week ahead of you, Nola,” she says, taking her hands in her own. “Your tea with Panteer tomorrow, perhaps a quick date with Rae, this afternoon, then you’re bound for Corellia.”

“Corellia?” Nola asks. Her eyes narrow. “What for?”

“You’re going to carry a message to Draq’ Bel Iblis. He’s—”

“I know who he is,” Nola says sharply. She looks down, sheepishly. “He helped rescue me from Z’ambique at the end of the War. Actually, he, my foster-sister, a couple of Jedi, some clonetroopers, a pirate, and an ex-Separatist witch—although I contend that they didn’t rescue me. They just facilitated my escape.”

Breha laughs at her fierce expression and her choice of words. _What were you, all of fifteen?  
_ After a moment, Nola joins in the laughter. 

As it calms, Nola gives her a quizzical look. “What about Panteer? What about Rae?”

Breha smiles softly. “Panteer will bear watching. I’m not asking you to do anything that you’re not comfortable with. The same with your friend. I’m not sure how to proceed. I want you to look as alive again as you did when you were laughing and joking with her. But you may pay a price as this thing picks up. Cherish the moments when you can, my love,” she finishes. 

Nola nods, then leans into Breha’s palm, now against her cheek. Her eyes are distant. She takes a deep breath. “Your Majesty,” she says, as if gathering her courage, “when you asked me if I could kill her, I hesitated. Do you really want someone that might hesitate?”

Breha stands on her tiptoes and pushes the taller woman back down to the couch. She pulls Nola’s dark hair into her shoulder, breathes in the scent. “More than anything, Nola. I’m sure that we’ll have plenty of killers, dear. I need someone to bear witness. To help us figure out a way forward. To maybe find another way. ” She looks down, her eyes tearing. “I said we’re all going to have to learn something. My Senator will as well.” 

She kisses Nola’s forehead. She fights the emotions rising in her very soul at the thought of Bail. “We’re going to all have to learn how to maintain the good in us when this is all over. That’s why I have no problem with you hesitating to kill someone, unless they’re trying to kill you.”

She pulls Nola closer to her chest. She feels the young woman’s breathing against her as she stares into the morning sky. 

Breha thinks of Bail; of his struggle with what might have to be done, to free a galaxy. His struggle to maintain that inherent goodness, so much a part of him. 

So much of what she fell in love with.

+=+=+=+=+=

Andressa Divo walks into the sparsely furnished office. Fey’lan Krtsador looks up, his dark eyes flashing angrily. His expression changes as his eyes fall on her gray uniform and half-armor; the identifier of a working ISB field agent. She stares at an Ithorian who approaches her, his hand on a weapon. 

Divo smirks as the Bothan hastily waves the minion away. 

“Good choice, Fey’lan, old boy,” she says smoothly. She stares at the Ithorian, cataloguing what appears to be an insolent expression on his features. Divo shakes her head. _I can never tell  
_, she thinks idly. She turns her focus back on the Ithorian’s boss. Krtsador stares back at her.

She waves her hand around the new office. “Looks like you’ve come down in the world, Fey’lan. I’m sure that if I check my datapad, I can give you the name of someone who deals in velvet blacklight paintings or something. Something in keeping with your current circumstances.”

She hears the Ithorian make a strange sound, halfway between a growl and a wheeze through his gill slits. Her eyes narrow. “Looks like you’ve come down in more than just art and real estate,” she adds. “Where is Gallatin, by the way? He classed up the joint a bit.”

“I don’t know. Can’t find him,” Krtsador replies. His face twists into something dark. “I guess a lot of people miss him. Were you one of the ones that fucked him for information about me?”

Divo allows herself to remain calm; she doesn’t draw her blaster and place a bolt in his muzzle. Instead, she paints a wistful expression on her face. “He was a fun ride. The boy sure knew how to use his tongue.”

Krtsador growls, opens his mouth. She holds up a hand. “Nope. You might want to think about what you say next. I was going to add that you should’ve appreciated a right-hand man who knew how to use his tongue. From what I heard, he used it to talk you out of some of your more stupid-ass schemes, as well as talking others out of ending you.”

Krtsador remains silent. “Unfortunately he didn’t talk you out of your little scheme of dealing in Imperial information; or, at least conning people out of their credits who believed you had Imperial information,” she says evenly.

He sits down heavily. “That’s right. That’s why I’m not here with a blaster squad. I’m not going to sanction you for the ISB information, that never actually existed.”

He grits his teeth. “Gallatin. He was the one who told me about it.”

Divo clucks chidingly and shakes her head. “Oh, Krt,” she says. “Always blaming someone else for your problems. Of course, I heard that Locan choked on a nuna bone or something. That, or he choked as some over-muscled simpleton strangled him. One that now seems to be running the show.”

She notes that Krtsador avoids her gaze. “Yeah. I’m not sure the boy could get past preening at the mirror in the gym to do something like take over the family information business.” She shakes her head. “No matter. I thought you were going to be my project for awhile, but alas, I’m being transferred to Coruscant. Big promotion and all. They’re transferring some wet-behind-the-ears junior agent from Alderaan here. Something about seasoning, or getting her off of her homeworld for awhile, or some such. You might claw your way back, if you try real hard. Especially with that musclehead in your pocket, as well as his father’s database.” She grins. “Since you seem to have misplaced your own.”

She turns and walks out. She grins and begins to whistle a tune that her father, Lieutenant Tan Divo of Coruscant Security, had taught her.

+=+=+=+=+=

Rae strides into the XO’s quarters, her hat placed precisely under her arm. She waits for Phyllida Enolo to look up from her datapad, focusing on a bulkhead behind Enolo’s head. Her eyes widen as she realizes that the picture of a _Venator_ -class Star Destroyer is missing. She chances a glance out of the corner of her eye; sees the boxes and a couple of duffle bags lying around the cabin. Her heart sinks. She refocuses on the memory of the painting. She smiles as she thinks of that ship, now a collection of wreckage in an orbital museum near Coruscant. _The Venator. First of her kind._

_The Hunter_. The last command of Rear-Admiral Jana Sloane.

She comes back to herself, sees Phyllida smiling at her, at where her gaze is locked. She looks down. 

“I know, Rae. Lot of memories on that ship. Jana made it live. So did those commandos, as well.” A smirk flows to her features. She stands up and walks around her desk. She reaches out and touches Rae’s nose. “Looks like it’s a bit crooked, dear. You’re the only person I know who comes back from a garden party with a knife wound and various bruises and contusions.” She pats her cheek, her smile softening. “Along with a smile in her eyes.”

Rae keeps her expression neutral. Enolo gestures towards the couch. They both sit. 

Enolo takes a deep breath. “I’m getting my own command, Rae,” she says. “A light cruiser in the Outer Rim. The Rim means an independent command, not necessarily tied to a squadron or fleet.”

Rae’s stomach sinks. The current Captain was not a fan of her work, just as he hadn’t been a fan of any of the female officers’ work. A throwback to an old era; one that seemed to be making a comeback in certain circles of the Imperial Navy. _Not all, though._

“This brings up some choices for you, Rae. I think you realize that you won’t be able to stay here. Your work on this last little job has gotten some notice. You’re being selected for full Lieutenant.”

Rae feels as if a lifeline had been thrown. “I can name my own senior staff; everyone currently on the light is rotating out. I could name you the navigator, but I think you’re ready for something bigger.

“Would you like to be my XO?”

Rae tries to keep her face calm. She sees Jana’s face in her mind, smiling with pride. 

“Before you accept, we do need to talk about your new friend on Alderaan. How’s that going?”

Rae manages to keep her face still. “It’s okay. We had a good visit before I left.” She touches her nose. “Sparred a little bit,” she says ruefully.

Enolo nods with a brief smile. “That’s not what I asked, Rae. Do you think it might be something that you can cultivate? We’re not sure of the Organa-Antilles faction. They might bear watching for signs of disloyalty.”

“I don’t know. We’ve agreed to keep in contact. She might be accepting a position—a very junior one with the Senator.”

Phyllida nods. “Make sure that you do. Do you think that she might be turned?

 _How the hell should I know? I’m not a goddamned spy_. Instead, she says, “I don’t know. I think that her loyalties are pretty distinct.”

When she is outside of Enolo’s cabin, Rae leans against the bulkhead in the passageway. She closes her eyes, thinking of Nola’s laughter; of her own. Of the respite from responsibility, something she had never had since the Republic had become the Empire. She thinks of what duty asks of her for what she has received. 

She sees Jana’s face in the shadows. Her older sister watches her. Rae is not sure that she sees pride in her gaze, now.

+=+=+=+=+=

Dorith Panteer walks into the bright sunroom of his townhouse. He smiles as he looks out into the noonday streets. Even though the information had not panned out for its intended purpose, the tumbling of the Organas and Antilles from power, he had managed to dodge the blaster bolt of Imperial scrutiny with a dangerous datacache in his possession. 

He thinks of his contacts with Krtsador, as well as Shaizan. His face darkens in the reflection of the mirror. He sighs. Krtsador was what he was. A venal mercenary, who dealt in the destruction of dreams. He was a tool to be used and discarded. Shaizan, however, had been more disappointing in his betrayal; of his refusal to provide any more capital for this project. 

Fantos has represented a door into a larger universe, something that his political and industrial contacts couldn’t. Contacts with another willing army if needed; the Antol crime family.

Dorith starts as he sees another reflection in the window, a flash of white. He whirls, his eye flashing with anger. He manages to calm himself as he sees his companion’s uniform.

“Hello, your Grace,” Leeza Antol says. “You’ve had a busy week.”

“How did you get in here, Major?” he says calmly. He puts on an air of nonchalance, as if senior ISB agents with connections to that very crime family routinely show up in his house. 

“Doesn’t matter. I didn’t think you would want me on your appointment book.”

She walks over to him. She reaches up and touches his cheek. “Now that I’ve managed to stifle any close looks into the possibility of you committing treason against the Empire, I think we should talk.”

“Whatever do you mean?” he asks. 

“Oh, Dorith, you keep playing the innocent. Who do you think was able to convince my superiors that there was nothing going on here on Alderaan? That the rumor of ISB codes and stolen data was just that. All it took was a little digging with a rival to the information broker in your pocket to get that supposed information.

“I think that we should really talk. I’m starting a new project. One that could be very lucrative, for all parties. The Empire. Me. Any supporters in certain powerful planetary governments.” She grins, as her eyes look him up and down. “I’m kind of interested in buying some real estate on Alderaan,” she says. She touches his lips with her thumb. 

“I’m listening,” he says. 

“I think the next phase will be to make some inroads with Shaizan. I’m not sure it was the _Dai-Lin_ who backed out of your deal.”

Both of them fall silent, as they stare at each other.

Dorith smiles, suddenly seeing so many opportunities for his plans. The afternoon tea with the young woman in the Organa’s care. A lucrative new project with a partner that he had never anticipated. He sees a young girl—perhaps a future product of that tea—her features blurred with the unknown future, sitting on the throne of Alderaan. He sees himself standing behind her, his hands on his future daughter’s shoulder. A trusted adviser. 

The power behind the throne.

He reaches out and touches Antol’s cheek, his own thumb playing over her lips.

+=+=+=+=+=

Ahsoka breathes in the fresh mountain air. It was just as she had remembered, all those years ago, when she had come to this beautiful world with Padme’ Amidala. On the power of nothing more than a Force-vision of a threat to the Naboo Senator. She closes her eyes. _Her friend_. 

She looks out over the balcony at the lush warm greens of Alderaan. She had not been able to explore the world in her previous visit. She grins. Recovering from her first blaster wound as well as trying to figure out who had wanted Padme’ dead. She remembers Anakin’s pride in her as they had confronted Ziro the Hutt in his prison cell. 

Once again, the pain and grief cuts through her heart. Another quick mission with both Padme’ and Anakin; the culmination of her finally connecting the dots—the realization of what her master and the Senator had meant to one another. Something deeper than Senator and General. _I wish I could’ve told them that I knew, more directly. I knew it was forbidden, but I saw what being together did for them. I wish that could’ve told them before it was too late_. She remembers the feel of Anakin’s hands, both flesh and metal, as she closed his hands over her padawan braid. 

Ahsoka shakes her head as the memories of her lost cascade through her mind at once. All of the ones she had thought of in the last few days, plus a few others. As always, the cascade begins with a sarcastic Corellian standing in front of her, laughing with her in the training salle’ of Clawmouse Clan. They end with the different dynamic—no longer a teacher; both adults. They end with the feel of the warm skin of his body against hers, his green eyes above hers as he—

“Hello, Fulcrum,” comes a warm voice at the door of the balcony.

She turns, trying to still her rapid heartbeat at those thoughts. She is gratified that her face is covered with the hood and scarf combination, so that Bail Organa can’t see the blush. She can only hope that he can’t recognize the spectrum of blue playing over her lekku, just visible under the same concealment, as anything more than reaction to the cold. Oddly, as she turns to him, she thinks of Cyn Elder; of finding the Mandalorian in the bed of her hostel room. She thinks of the comfort that merely lying in each other’s arms had provided; a brief respite. She wonders if the young woman had been disappointed that the comforts had not taken on any more of a strenuous nature than falling asleep with the steady breath and heartbeat of another.

She manages to dispel all thoughts of strenuous comforts. Bail beckons her into the room. “Come on in here, Ahsoka,” he says. “The room is secure. You can show your face here.”

She walks in, removing her concealment. Bail motions her to a chair near the fire. Her eyes widen as she sees him reach over to the sideboard and pour two glasses of brandy. He hands her one, then clinks his glass against hers.

The brandy burns slightly as it goes down, a different burn and flavor than the whisky that others had introduced her to. She sets the glass down carefully. 

Bail gives her an odd smile, then shakes his head. “I seem to be corrupting youth with alcohol on a regular basis in the last few days.” He grins at her confused look. “Never mind. Another young woman thrust into a different role than she is used to.”

They sit watching each other for several moments. She meets his searching gaze, unflinchingly. She takes a deep breath. “Your Highness, I’m sorry. I disobeyed you. I did look into Krtsador. I didn’t engage him, though.”

Bail smiles. “I know, Ahsoka.” He looks into his glass. “I realize that we’re both learning this whole thing. I know that I’m going to have to trust you; that I can’t micromanage you. I expected you to disobey me, but I’m glad that you did it for tactical reasons, not because of your ego.”

She nods. “May have been a little bit of my ego, Senator,” she says.

His smile grows a bit tighter, but stays constant. “That you can admit that tells me a great deal.”

“So, the information I was after. It never really existed? All of that effort for an empty file?”

He shakes his head. “No, not wasted. The hint of the information was enough for a possible threat to Alderaan to overstep himself—to reveal what he was willing to do. The extra was the comm encryption you gained. We might not have gotten that, if you hadn’t pushed a bit. That was something that we got from Krtsador’s files.”

He reaches out and takes one of her hand between his two much larger ones. “You’re going to have to have a great deal of leeway for this thing to work. You’ll have to make decisions on your own; on the fly. It’s up to me to provide you with the support system to cover you when you fall. It may take awhile, but that support system will eventually be there.”

She nods, then stands. He motions to someone. A woman dressed in non-descript civilian clothing steps in. Ahsoka starts with recognition. She feels her heart twist, but calms as she realizes the woman is not who she thought she was.

“Part of this support system will also include some respite; some way of helping you recover, not just from the physical wounds, including those healing ribs you’re taking great pains to conceal from me, but those wounds to your heart and mind as well. I think even though you were trained as a Jedi and are close to invincible,” at this he drops one eyelid in a wink, “ I want you to have that respite.” He indicates the newcomer. “You remember, Sabe’, don’t you? One of Padme’s early Handmaidens?”

Ahsoka smiles, fighting her tears at the resemblance. “I do,” she says. She walks over to the older woman. Sabe’ holds her hands out and takes Ahsoka’s, then kisses her cheek.

“Sabe’, even though she won’t admit it, needs her own respite. The Queen and I rely on her a great deal. We can’t bring you here from the Rim without some way of concealing you. We have rooms in the Palace that can help you hide and rest, but there is another option, occasionally. Something you might enjoy more.”

Ahsoka gives a quick shake of her head. “I spent a year after the Fall in my own mind. I need to be out there. Doing what you chose me to do.”

“No, you spent a year trying to suppress your mind. Kaeden Larte told me that you told her that you wouldn’t let yourself dream. I know that’s a Jedi thing. I’m giving you just a little time to dream again when you sleep.”

Ahsoka closes her eyes, allowing the tears to dissipate. She smiles at the thought of the young farmer; the powerful crush on her. The hours spent together, just before Ahsoka had left for the stars. She opens her eyes as she hears Sabe’ begin to speak.

“I have a cabin. It’s actually in my name, in the Eastern Mountains. There’s a lake, with mountains you can run and train on. There are good places to clear the mind there,” Sabe’ says. 

“It’s away from prying eyes, as well,” Bail says. “Go there. Spend a few weeks. I don’t want to see either of you for awhile. The fight will wait a little bit.”

As she and Sabe’ walk from the room, she looks back at Bail. She sees the look of pain; of something else on his features, before the door closes.

+=+=+=+=+=

The guest watches the sun reach its zenith in Alderaan’s sky. An observer—one who knew him, or was at least acquainted with him—only a handful could say that they truly knew him, would say that he was merely waiting to pounce, rather than at rest. A flicking tongue would be enough to complete the picture; the picture of his namesake reptile waiting for prey. 

His comm signals. He pulls it from the pocket of his expensive suit and looks at the local time. He smiles at the avatar that pops up. A woman’s face pops up above the device; even with the dull, fuzzy quality of the device’s product, the crimson hue of her skin stands out. 

His eyes soften at the tiny splotch of white in her blue hair; a splotch that looks as if growing from the silver diadem holding the waves back.

Her own eyes, now always permanently the color of the sloe that grows in certain regions of his world, show their own concern at the changes in him. Changes wrought by years of struggle to keep his world relevant—work that some would say had been undone with the new galactic order. 

“Hello, my Dragon,” she says. 

He smiles at her; a smile that he knows she considers her own—one much uncharacteristically softer than the one associated with his reputation. “Hello, Alyys,” he replies. “Did your agent make it home safely?”

“Yes, dear,” she says. “He was glad to be back in the Land. His sister was so glad to see him. She’d been kind of lost without him.”

He nods. “The Five Brothers appreciates all that he did. I appreciate the sacrifices that he made; being away from home and family so long.” He looks down. “I of all people know what it means for a Zeltron to be cut off from contact.”

He sees Alyys close her eyes. “Dani?” she whispers.

“She’s reeling. The loss of a loved one; one she had bonded with. She’s cut herself off, even from me.”

He sees the beginnings tears showing just her lids. “Maybe it’s time that we tell her, that she comes here to Zeltros and—” she starts.

“No,” he says softly. “I think that would put your world at risk, as well as her.”

“Draq’,” she whispers. “I think my world and our daughter can take this.”

It is his turn to close his eyes. “It’s a moot point. She won’t take my calls and she’s where I can’t directly oversee her work like I did.”

A discreet knock at the burlwood door sounds. She hears it as well. After a moment, she nods. “I know that you have to go, Draq. But you may have to acknowledge her, even though it could mean a threat to her. You and the Vorserries raised her to be strong and resilient.” At that, she disappears from his comm.

Bail Organa walks in as soon as the holo fades. Draq’ Bel Iblis turns and meets him halfway in the room. He takes Bail’s hand, then pulls him into an embrace. Bail is one of the few people, who nearly comes up to his height. They break apart, then walk over to the side table. 

“You heard?” Draq’ asks. 

“Tried not to. I think the Chalice might be right. You may need to tell Dani. Breha thinks so.”

Draq’ grins sheepishly. “Well, if one of five women in the universe that makes my bowels turn to water says so—”

They both share a laugh as they sip their brandy. They sit before the fire. “I appreciate it, Bail. You and Bre are two of the very small circle of people who know that Dani’s my daughter. But I’ve got to wrestle with this on my own.”

Bail nods; his eyes accept Draq’s words. _His heart might not_ , Draq’ thinks. “So has everything worked out with your employee?” he asks, changing the subject. 

“Yes. Just left them. I appreciate all that you’ve done, Draq’. You exposed a threat, and you helped us come closer to their full potential. They’ll probably still do things that will make my hair turn grayer, but I think that the information you seeded in various spots in the galaxy helped me realize that I can count on them.” His eyes narrow for an instant. “Just wish that the Dragon of Corellia had told me about it a little sooner.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Draq’ retorts. As they laugh together, Draq’ notes the pronouns that Bail used—or didn’t use. He files it away for later, then grins. “Why have the reputation of a galactic puppetmaster if you can’t control one scumbag information broker?”

Bail gives another quick laugh. “There’s the Dragon showing again.” He grows sober. “So what gave you the idea to seed that ISB information with Krtsador?”

“Well, it was a combination of happenstance and bad management of my people.” He sees Bail’s eyebrows raise. “I knew what kind of scumbag Krtsador was; thought that he could be used. Little did I know that my slicer was already playing around in the ISB mainframe.”

“Draq’,” Bail says through gritted teeth. 

“I know. I told him not to, but that’s like throwing fuel on the fire. I know he covered his tracks. If anybody is able to trace it, he made sure that it would be traced to Krtsador.”

“I can imagine Krtsador’s surprise when an ISB idiosyncratic code showed up in his systems.”

“He was probably too stupid to realize it. That’s where another allied agent came in.”

Bail shakes his head. “To think that a casual conversation over dinner about Bothan spies started this whole thing. I’m glad that my agent was able to suss this out. They saw the importance of the information, even though I didn’t intend it. I couldn’t really say no, since they were already deep into looking for it.” He is quiet for a moment. “What about the little bonus you gave me at the levee’? It was valuable insight into another potential employee.”

“You can be a little less circumspect. I know Nola’s father; he helped me make sure Dani was safe.”

“So how did that assessment work?”

“Touchstone. He has very wide-ranging interests. He’s been chatting with a Zeltron mind-healer. She gave him some ideas for psychological and occupational tests. He saw Nola going in and put it together. I guess I can only hope that this didn’t come from a session of comm-sex with her,” he finishes.

“That’s way too much information, Dragon. But I thank you.”

“It was helpful?”

“Very. She took a bit of a risk going in there alone, but your little questionnaire showed me it was calculated. She also showed that she could be cautious, rather than throwing her life away for a victory that could be gained otherwise. That shows me that she has some potential; potential to serve as someone who might enhance our operational security with the other employee. ” 

Bail is pensive for several moments, then shakes his head ruefully. “I guess that I owe you two cases of this brandy. All this espionage is getting expensive.”

Draq’ snorts, then looks at his chronometer. Bail rises. “I’ve got another appointment, as well Draq’. I know this was a quick meeting, but stop by and see Breha and Leia.” Another embrace and he is gone.

Draq’ contemplates the rich liquid in his glass. He smiles at the threads of all of his maneuvering behind the scenes; maneuvering that will help build a movement. One that he and his world will not join directly yet, but will, if nurtured, grow into something more. Something that will hopefully restore sanity to the galaxy. 

So that he will never have to look at the pain of loss and grief in a daughter’s eyes. 

So that no father will.

+=+=+=+=+=

Kal Skirata closes the comm, allowing Draq’ Bel Iblis’s craggy features to fade. He takes a sip of his _netra’gel_ , allowing the warmth from the dark, spicy brew to permeate his entire being. He sets the mug down; lifts the shot of Corellian whisky as a chaser, then downs it. He grins as he thinks of the influence of a Corellian-Mandalorian, yet another lost soul from the conflagration. His expression grows dark again as he thinks of what his chief instructor, a young woman running from her own demons had discovered six months ago, during that same Corellian-Mandalorian’s training ‘graduation’. 

That he had more secrets to hide. Secrets that had caused her to take him, her black and orange _beskar’gam_ , a damaged Fett clone, and a battered old Republic shuttle out among the stars. 

He thinks of the other young ex-Jedi that he had helped at about the same time. Kal had not heard anything more from Ahsoka Tano, since he and she had both left Bothawui Proper behind. 

He had known of his new student’s heritage; of his inability to touch that mystical mumbo-jumbo. It had been the only reason that he had let the Corellian—now known simply as the Storm-King, for his particular style of fighting in melee’—stay with J’ohlana. He had decided to keep his knowledge to himself, to allow the young man to heal from his wounds and make his way in the universe.

Kal had not counted on him taking J’ohlana Wren with him, almost as soon as she had returned from a little protection job on Alderaan—one that had come at the request of that reptile from the Five Brothers.

He lifts his eyes as two armored shadows come over his table. “The _alor_ will see you now, Skirata,” the leader says tonelessly. He looks around the bar; then beyond into the dining room of the incongruous Alderaani grill-spice restaurant in the middle of Sundari.

Kal rises and follows the hardheads into a secluded dining room, then through a concealed door. He allows his eyes to move around the room, looking for obvious escape routes and weapons.

“Don’t worry, _Kalbuir_ ,” comes a deep voice to the side. “If I was going to kill you, I wouldn’t dirty my own rug with your guts.”

Kal focuses for half a second on a display of Mandalorian edged weapons over the fireplace. He decides that the heavy iron poker at the side of the warm fire would make an easier target to grab. “That’s good to know, _alor_ ,” he says, choking back his disgust at calling a crime lord ‘chieftain’.

Kal watches as the tall man turns around. He knows that the head of the Unwanteds is in his late seventies at least. The man who turns around and gazes at him through one dark eye and one milky one, appears to be two or three decades younger, except for the white hair. He looks as if he could still be the partner of Jango Fett, as they spread chaos throughout the Mandalorian sector. Just before he had settled down as the consort of the Shysa _Mand’alor_.

Until you look into the one good eye. Kal draws a sharp breath as the man’s face comes into view. He sees the same face looking back him, as he cast its owner out from his small group of Null-class clones. A clone who had later made his name with a certain Corellian-Mandalorian Jedi, as his right hand. As Kal had known that he would have flourished, once from under the shadow of the other Nulls; where his innate, if well-disguised compassion, would be allowed to grow. 

“I guess you finally decided to take me up on my offer of employment, Kal,” Tarranic Vheh’yaim says.

Kal smiles. “Guess it was time. Nothing else to tie me down.”

Vheh’yaim nods. “Guess not. Cyn’s doing well. She said that she wouldn’t cut your balls off if I hired you.”

As they laugh together, he thinks of what saying ‘yes’ to this man and to a certain Dragon would cost him. Oddly, as Draq’s face flits through his mind, he thinks of what Tarranic’s last name means. A small wattle-and-daub hut, used by the farmers of Keldabe. A colloquial term that also serves as the surname of unwanted Mandalorian children. Those cast aside by their families, including for the crime of manifesting the skills of a Jedi in front of this proud old man. Even if the orphaned grandchild was only three years old.

He thinks of the closest Basic translation of the word for these children. 

_Croft._


End file.
